


The Tides Of Vulcan

by BaronessEmma



Series: The Tides Of Vulcan [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Alien Culture, Developing Relationships, F/M, Pon Farr, Romance, Science Fiction, Starfleet Academy, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 175,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a tide in the affairs of Vulcans, which taken at the Fire, leads on to fortune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**The Tides of Vulcan**

* * *

_"Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in darkness and in miseries. In such a great desert do we now set forth. And we must take the winds when they serve, or lose our ventures."_

_\- From "A Shakespeare Paraphrase" edited by Amanda Grayson_

* * *

**Prologue**

Vulcan has no moon.

It is a simple fact, long established. No one questions it.

Vulcan _wants_ no moon.

Plainly stated, its few shallow oceans have only a small solar tide, its "months" are measured by stellar patterns and solar drift, its axial tilt is stabilized by the system's unusually large and stable complement of comets, and the biological cycles of its inhabitants are ruled, not by gravitational powers, but by an intricate balance of hormonal and mental imperatives that bind the males and females into an ancient ritualistic dance that incorporates physical and mental need so securely, that the flow of it may truly be said to have a tidal force. It is natural, elemental, and regular. It is also unstoppable.

Yet it is necessary - both men and women would die without it.

Vulcan _needs_ no moon. . .


	2. Chapter One

_"It is said that Vulcans can be kind. I must disagree. What is perceived by most as kindness is in fact knowledge. As a race Vulcans know what it took to extricate themselves from destruction. It may be, however, that the racial desire to inform and thus prevent other races from experiencing the same upheaval is not always entirely objective - thus I believe the term "nobility" comes into play. But, above all, when this behavior is displayed by one Vulcan singly, or many Vulcans as a group, let the observer be assured - it is logical."_

_\- Excerpt from "The Nobility of Truth" by S'chn T'gai Spock, Prime, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Are you certain this is the wisest thing to do, _adun_?"

" _Ashal-veh_ , the decision has been made."

"Assuredly, it has, but is it the _wise_ decision?"

"I have meditated on little else for a full twenty days."

"I am aware of that. . ."

His mother's voice changed suddenly. It changed from a soft pleading to a crisp monotone. . . her _dangerous_ voice.

"And yet, I notice _you have not answered my question, Sarek_."

Insofar as he could, his father sighed.

"I have decided it is the best choice for all concerned, _adun'a_."

"Does that include our son?"

"Seeing as he is one of the main figures in this decision, it would have been illogical to exclude his best interest from the equat-"

She interrupted, "And did you put his _emotions_ into this equation?"

His father's patience was clearly palpable.

"Emotions are _illogical_."

"Indeed they are - but what if they are _also in his best interest_? Doesn't he get to choose his own path in life?"

"Of course. A childhood bonding is not a life sentence, _ashal-veh_. You and I are a prime example - "

"You and I had the courage of our convictions and two extremely well established cultures to lean on. Spock has neither of these things at the present time."

"He is _my son_ , Amanda," his father's voice began to sound very slightly hard, "This decision was made so that the Vulcan people would see he is of them, and not impaired by Human genetic - "

"He is _**OUR**_ son, Sarek, and this decision was made so that you might broadcast the message "I come from a rich old family" to all of Vulcan, and for very little else - "

"A childhood betrothal is _traditional_ , not caste-based as you insinuate, and _if_ your genetics have saved him from our curse - as I truly hope they have - then this bonding will at least give him the option of the logical path."

"And if they have not?"

"Then she will save his life."

"Will she?"

"It is her duty, as it is the duty of all women who - "

"Sarek, you do remember we are talking about T'Pring, daughter of T'Sai, High Priestess of Gol, right?"

"I cannot forget."

"Well, it's very difficult for me to believe that such a bonding is anything but the Vulcan way of bragging that you have old blood and lots and lots of money - have you _**met**_ the girl?"

His father gave a very short sigh, "You were present at two of the three meetings where she and I were also - "

"No, Sarek, not "have you met her". Listen to what I asked. Have you _**met**_ her?"

"Yes."

"And you _still_ think she is a good match for our son?"

"She is the logical choice."

"No, she is _ **a**_ logical choice, and you have yet to convince me that it is the wisest one."

His father's voice now sounded tired, "What other choice is there to make at this late date, _ashal-veh_?"

"Do not betroth them."

Plain shock filled the air.

"I cannot go back on my word, Amanda, I am surprised you even suggest that I - "

"Oh _bond_ them, of course - far be it from me to deprive a child of his right to childhood scars - but does it have to be a betrothal bond?"

"I am unsure of your meaning."

She made a very human sound of impatience, "It's plain enough, Sarek, what I mean. _Do not_ bond them in the traditional manner, _do not_ force our son to follow your culture instead of his own, _do not_ put that. . . computer disguised as a little girl. . . in his way just because you think it would be a good idea, _do not_ tie him up in a bond so hard to break it might kill him if it ever is, and _do not_ assume that you're doing the _wise_ thing just because it might be _logical_."

She had spat that last word, as though getting rid of a foul taste, but now her voice softened considerably, "But _do_ consider that the vast majority of Vulcans do not betroth their children anymore, _do_ think about how Ambassador Sarek, son of T'Pau, scion of Surak, engaging in a full, ancient, _outdated_ betrothal ceremony for his son would be perceived by all those other Vulcans you seem so concerned about, and _do_ remember that a friendship bond is just as effective when it comes to mates and times and all the rest of it."

His father inhaled slowly, "I remember, _t'hy'la_."

"I should hope you do." There was a quiet rustle of fabric.

"Given that the ceremony is tomorrow, there is little that can now be changed," Sarek's voice was slightly muffled for some reason, "But I will consider your input, _ashayam_. . ."

" _Fully_ consider it, Sarek?"

"Mm, fully. . ." there was a very small. . . damp. . . noise, ". . . consider it."

"Go to bed, Sarek."

"I will wait for you, wife."

The soft sound of his father's footsteps retreated down the south hallway. Nine seconds later, his mother's head appeared in the doorway of the east hallway.

"Spock?"

"Yes, Ko'mekh?"

"Go to bed."

"Yes, Ko'mekh."

As he made his way back to his room - without the glass of water he had arisen to get - he wondered, and not for the first time, whether it was his father or his mother that was telepathic. . .

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Adun_ \- Husband

 _Adun'a_ \- Wife

 _Ko'mekh_ \- Mother

 _Ashayam_ \- Beloved

 _Ashal-veh_ \- Darling

 _T'hy'la_ \- Friend-for-life


	3. Chapter Two

_"The phenomenon which I have often heard both Dr. McCoy's refer to as "Damn Vulcan Prudery", is, in fact, a recent development, when it comes to the whole of Vulcan culture. Contrary to the beliefs of the uninformed, there are many references to the necessities of marital relations in the works of Surak, and for many centuries it was seen as common - indeed necessary - to discuss private matters within the confines of one's own clan. It is true that Vulcans never were as blatantly forthcoming about private matters as Humanity seemed to be from the beginning, but it was not until Vulcan as a whole began to have regular contact with other races that our biological necessities began to be seen as shameful, for it was only then that we realized exactly how extreme they could be. It was not until First Contact with Terra that most of Vulcan culture realized how the Pon Farr would be perceived by most of the rest of the Galaxy, and it was mostly through our increasing friendship with Humanity that Vulcan began to notice how other races dealt with reproduction and marriage. It was then that Vulcan leaders as a whole decided to "close ranks" - as I understand the term. Whether this has been good for us or not is not for me to decide, but I can say with certainty that it is for the most part Humanity that Vulcan has to thank for finally being able to begin to see itself for what it is."_

_\- Excerpt from "A Double Life Twice Lived - a Memoir" by S'chn T'gai Spock, Prime, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

She knew, of course, that her distaste was illogical.

To engage in a permanent bond with a mate of one's parent's choosing, _that_ was logical, normal, and to an average Vulcan child, desirable. So much uncertainty and randomness was removed from the situation if the parents of the people involved did the initial choosing of mates. It had even been common, until a few generations ago, to fully betroth the children, and that had been logical too. To be sure that the male in question would always have a recourse - so that his own biology would neither kill him nor drive him insane - that was entirely reasonable. She did not know for sure why the practice had fallen out of favor - she would have to ask her mother. Even so, upwards of 98% of all marriages between Vulcans were still pre-arranged, with instilled _t'hy'la_ bonds at childhood, and the final marriage ceremony requiring only a slight shifting of the longstanding mental link.

It was logical - even children needed _t'hy'la_. Such bonds formed naturally, and a healthy Vulcan mind could support several of them at once, with any member of any species that was sensitive to psionic energy. This was unlike the full betrothal bond, which only rarely formed without instigation by a healer, and she had never heard of any mind being able to support more then one marriage bond at a time. Instilling _t'hy'la_ bonds into the minds of the two chosen children was no intrusion, but rather more often a great blessing. It meant the child would never be alone.

But she was T'Pring, daughter of T'Sai of the Reldai, the most sought after clan on Vulcan, and her betrothed would have to be either a princely scion of a High Clan, or a future member of the High Council.

_However, that is not what concerns me, I am sure of it._

No, it wasn't the thought of a high profile marriage, with the multitude of public duties that would ensue, or the less-than-private life that would follow which made her clench her hands and experience the tightening of muscles in her lower back that meant she was about to be extremely stubborn.

_It is the_ _**permanence** _ _of it._

She frowned a little at herself for emphasizing that word too much. There was emotion there. She must identify it, and then suppress it. She was not excited, nor was she disgusted. She was not angry. She could not be angry.

Was she afraid?

_I think, perhaps, I am._

But of what?

To be sure, she knew much more about what would be expected of her when her betrothed reached his Time than any child of eight years perhaps ought to know, but then, she was a child of the Reldai. At ascension, a priestess vowed to never complete the full marriage bond with anyone, leaving her mind open for the times when there were emergencies. Careless males, accidental deaths, unexpected separations, the extreme illness of a mate; all were reason enough to seek out help from the Reldai of Gol.

It would then be the Reldai's duty to form a special bond - temporary, but very strong - and then save the male's life. It was logical, it promoted diversity through combinations, and it preserved lives.

It was the way of Reldai - to be there in time of need, but always, in the end, to be free.

Children from these necessary unions were rare, but completely legitimate, and desired by all clans for their inherent qualities of _Kol-Ut-Shan_. According to law they could join their father's clan as soon as they came of age, or choose the crowded lonely life, the free bondage of Gol.

That choice had been hers, and a year ago she had chosen her mother's way. Even at eight she was considering undergoing _kolinahr_ , the first step in becoming a full member of the Reldai.

To be assured the stability of a clan, without the **permanence** of a marriage bond. . .

There was that word again.

Why was she afraid of it?

She was not afraid of a male's Time, nor was she afraid of her own Time (a small grain of niggling doubt still remained over the latter, but she quickly dismissed it), she did not fear the boy she was going to be betrothed to, despite the fact that her mother had said he was half Human.

_How is that possible?_

She put the thought from her mind. It was irrelevant. Clearly it was possible. That was enough. He was half Human, and probably also a member of a High Clan - most likely from S'chn T'gai, of the House of Surak. Osu Sarek was the only Vulcan she had heard of that had married a Human. She had met him and his wife a few times of late. Did they have a son? They must have, if she was to be bonded to him today.

 _Kaiidth_. Such a son would embody _Kol-Ut-Shan_ even more than she herself did. He would be acceptable.

But her fear did not abate. If it _was_ fear. . .

 _Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_.

It did not matter if she was afraid, or what she was afraid of, she must control it.

She sat as she had been taught, and lighted her _asenoi_. She must waste no time at this - the ceremony would begin in a few hours.

She blew out the lighter-stick, watching the soft grey smoke curl upwards and disperse just below the varnished coffers in the beamed ceiling. Suddenly she seemed very small in her own eyes, and she shivered. She wondered at the patterns and tendencies of people. She was young, and yet she knew she wanted constant variety, and interesting work, company and entertainment.

She knew her weakness was boredom.

_Is that what I fear so much?_

What if her betrothed was dull, uninteresting, or so opposite to her that she couldn't find his company edifying? What if his humanity had made him vapid? What if this bonding was to be her prison?

Why had her mother chosen to betroth her, when so few parents did so for their children anymore, and to a half-Human unknown quantity, at that? Why had her mother chosen this path for her when T'Pring had made it so clear that she desired to be a Reldai?

_Enough._

There was not time for fear. She must cast it out.

She folded her hands, focused on the flame of her firepot, and began.

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean good._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean evil._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean change._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean constancy._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean stay._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean depart._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean wrong._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean right._

_Kaiidth -_

_It means what it means._

_What is._

_Is._

_Be content._

After this, she rose and prepared for the journey to the _Koon-ut Reldai._ It would not be a long process. There were clean clothes already laid out, and she was more than used to arranging her hair properly.

She was not in a hurry. She was calm. She was unafraid.

But after the ceremony, she wondered if any of that were truly so.

_How could time have gone so quickly?_

The ceremony had been several unexpected experiences - one right after the other.

Osu S'chn T'gai Sarek did not intend to betroth her to his son. Had apparently never intended to do so. He had stood there, looking tall even in the midst of the circle of standing stones, and speaking only to her mother. He offered his son as _t'hy'la_ to her daughter. Her mother had agreed - had she hesitated before she had agreed? - and leaned forward to form the bond in their minds. Her mother had touched her face, and the face of Osu Sarek's son, and performed the short ritual.

She, T'Pring, would stay free, but with the expectation that she would use the bond, strengthen it and explore it before the Time when it would be needed. She had been bonded to Osu Sarek's son in the _modern_ way. As far as she was capable, she felt relief.

It was short-lived.

Her first touch to the boy's mind had been. . . everything at once. He was Vulcan, yes, but he felt so different, so. . . interesting. If he was half Human, then Humans were anything but dull. He was acceptable.

But his first touch to her mind had been. . . an open flame dropped into a bowl of oil. She was a girl and he did not want her. She would keep her mind to herself. She would never touch him again.

She had gasped, and had almost broken down under the weight of his emotions. Tears pricked their unfamiliar sensation in her eyes, her stomach rolled in a way she knew meant illness, her feet and knees were suddenly weak.

_You think you are the only one who is angry that they do not have a choice?_

It was the one and only thing he had said to her directly. Then his mental walls came up, and she was slammed out of his mind.

 _I am not angry. It would be illogical to be angry._ She projected at him, desperate to try and repair the breach. _It is our way, you must let me try to. . ._ He pushed again, his mental shielding far stronger than one might expect for a boy of not-yet-seven.

_T'hy'la!_

She received nothing from his mind, except a vague but very powerful impression of _No_.

Her mother and his father had stood there, quite helpless, and as shocked as Vulcans could be. They all left the _Koon-ut_ , quickly.

The bond remained in place, but he was not her _t'hy'la_.

As she took down the elaborate plaits in her hair that night, she realized she did not even know his name.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Asenoi_ \- Meditation firepot.

 _Kol-Ut-Shan_ \- The concept of IDIC - Infinite Combinations in Infinite Diversity

 _Osu_ \- Sir; Male honorific

 _Koon-ut_ \- Place of marriage, usually surrounded by standing stones, and always with an altar and gong in the center.

 _Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_. - "Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear." (Analect of Surak)

 _Reldai_ \- Vulcan priestesses

 _Kolinahr -_ A total logic discipline involving a rigorous training program to purge oneself of all emotion, with psychic surgery if necessary.

 _Kaiidth_ \- What is, is. (Common statement of Vulcan philosophy)


	4. Chapter Three

_"Take care with whom you meld, for the best of each of you will remain with the other."_

_\- Vulcan Proverb_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

He knew, of course, that he was being illogical.

His father had ordered him - not once, but many times - not to disappear into the Tar'hana highlands during their _shom's'ar'kada_.

Spock had ignored the command, this time and every time.

This time his father had even had a reason; this year they had come to the mountains in time for the _Yon-gad-muf_ , the Fire Festival, where Spock was to have taken part in the Ceremony of Stones, and be formally accepted by his peers into a _nu'ri-travek,_ a group of youths, all about the same age. His mother, too, had hoped he would participate, saying he "needed friends". Which was illogical, since while on occasion _t'hy'la_ bonds did form between members of such groups, it was far more common for them to be simple classrooms outside of classrooms - formally organized troupes of young people who all learned something together. Chess or a musical instrument were the most likely subjects.

He had told his mother that, being over 16 as he was, he had already learned chess, and he would progress with greater proficiency with his _ka'athyra_ if he could do so without group interference.

The truth was, he was tired of ceremonies.

They had begun when he was just six - barely into his seventh year - and they had come at regular intervals since then. First the _Than-Tha-Kash-Nohv_ , where his father had presented him to T'Pau, and she had guided him through his first mind-meld. Had he been a girl, he reasoned, it might have been easier. Then his mother would have presented him to his father, and perhaps their present stand-off of attitudes might have been avoided. But he was a boy, and he had to be presented to a female relative. A psi-sensitive female relative. Which left out his mother, and pointed directly to T'Pau. Spock never wondered why most people found his grandmother to be mortally terrifying. It was because she was.

A few months later had come his first Water Ceremony, where the whole clan gathered to confirm him as his father's heir, and formally give him the title of a Scion of Surak.

And then there had been the Ceremony of the Wells, where the Clan Leaders had re-confirmed him as the Heir of his House, and inheritor of his family's most precious possessions - the three ancient wells that had been in the clan since time immemorial.

Only a few weeks after that there had been that bonding ceremony, with a girl he did not know, and a family he cared not to associate with. The Reldai of Gol had all accepted _kolinahr_ , and their children were not meant for common bonding. He knew that it was merely further proof of his status in the S'chn T'gai clan, but, truth be told, he would have preferred a full betrothal. The _t'hy'la_ bond was far too easy for him to block out, and he had not made contact with T'Pring since that first moment of bonding. One cold, emotionless, petrifying touch had been enough. T'Pring only had room for logic, and denied rather than accepted her emotions. He had easily identified anger in her mind and bearing, but she had denied it even existed. A _t'hy'la_ bond with her was like being able to see a thread unraveled from a stranger's tunic - the only way to deal with it would be rude, so it was best forgotten, since it was only a small thing, anyway. The full _koon'ul_ would have been far more intimate from the first moment, and much, much harder to ignore. Perhaps, if that had been so, he would have been able to reconcile a bond with such a cold mind. Of course, there might have been even more difficulties with such a bond - Spock was highly emotional for a Vulcan, and this might have led him to take his wife before his Time. He knew this was the main reason full betrothal bonding had fallen out of favor - logically, children had less emotional control and thus had less control in this, the most emotional of all interactions, and this had led to problems - there had been unborn children lost because of poor timing, and children born too soon, all to parents who were still children themselves. But then, it was still suspect if he could even father children, or if he would ever reach his Time at all.

He shook his head. Life was complicated.

And then, of course, there had been his _kahs'wan_ , where, soon after his seventh birthday, he had spent nine days alone in the desert to prove his Maturity.

Well, he had been alone save for I-Chaya. . .

He knew his father would be ashamed of him if he knew how much he still mourned for I-Chaya. The sehlat had been old, but the most fiercely loyal and acceptable of companions. It had been terrifying and heart-rending, and yet also somehow fitting that the usually gentle household pet would end his life in a death-battle to save Spock's life. The only thing which seemed to stem the sorrow in Spock's heart was to imagine trading places with I-Chaya that day, saving him instead of the sehlat saving Spock. He knew it was highly illogical to imagine taking on a le-matya unarmed, for the sake of an old pet, but admitting to himself that he had valued his friend's life as much as he valued his own was the only thing that could make his death mean enough to be bearable. His father must never know, and he suspected his mother already knew, that a large reason why he did not wish for friends - particularly ones his own age - was because he harbored a strange and terrible fear that their professed regard would never measure up to the voiceless love of a loyal sehlat. . .

And then there had been the Ceremony of Ten-Years, when he had graduated from the ten years of general schooling and entered the Great Shi'oren of Shi'Kahr, the graduates of which were far more likely to be accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy than graduates of any other school. Most of his classmates were 14 or 15, but he was only 13, having finished the fifth and sixth year's work in only one year, a feat so rare that he had been not only the youngest, but also the first of his class to receive the graduation acknowledgement.

The fact that his accomplishment had meant a class advancement, which subsequently had carried him out of enforced company with the then nine-year-old bullies who had tormented him for those first five years, was an entirely irrelevant by-product of his efforts. Or so he had told his father.

Then there had been another Water Ceremony when he had been 14; the traditional age for High Clan heirs to lead their first formal event and learn the more secret of the ceremonial High Vulcan phrases.

And just last year, during the wet season, they had joined in on a neighboring Clan's modernized celebration of the Festival of Natara - the God of Rain. It had been interesting to learn the traditional dances - forms which could clearly be seen to be the basic roots of at least three of Vulcan's modern martial arts, but there was little else to say about such a festival, save that his father's presence had lent it an importance it would not have otherwise have commanded. They had been invited back this year, but his father would be off-planet in a few months, and Amanda and Spock were due a visit to Earth.

For the first time in his admittedly short life, Spock was relieved at the prospect of a visit to Earth.

Eight highly formal ceremonial events in the last ten years was more than enough. He needed no more.

But he did need peace, and time alone, and the stars of Vulcan to spin in their own slow, careful dance overhead.

The late afternoon sun washed across the striated rust-red and soft peach coloured rock of the windswept terrain, lengthening the shadows, deepening contrasts, and giving a last surge of warmth to the small makeshift lean-to shelter that clung to a secluded niche in the tumbled rockface. Soon, the wind-carved hollow would be soothingly cool, and the seemingly inadequate tentlike shelter would actually trap just enough warmth to last all through the star-bright night. Off in the distance, the steams of Tar'hana's active caldera served to remind him of the not-so-very-distant danger of these lonesome expeditions. Camping in the near vicinity of an active volcano was not exactly logical, but, he found, he could not stay away.

It would be the second night Spock had spent alone out here, peaceful and awed under the stars, his heart full of something it never managed to acknowledge at any other time.

There was freedom out here, but there was also beauty, and serenity, and the fine, wild edge of danger blent in measure with sure, solid life.

It was like two worlds out here - the blissfully tame and the voraciously savage - but mixed thoroughly into one.

He never felt more at home.

He lay back on the smooth, curved stone, appreciating how perfectly this one spot matched the curve of his spinal column. Absently, he ate the handful of _barkaya_ nuts he had foraged that afternoon, and took a small sip of water from his flask. The stars were emerging, as the light from Nevasa eased behind the horizon.

He found and traced with his eyes the five stars of the constellation _Aluk-hinek_.

He inhaled, slowly savoring the scent of the cooling rocks, mingled with air ever so slightly acrid from the distant steaming brimstone. He wanted - or perhaps needed - to watch the stars out here, alone, unlet and unencumbered. It mattered little that his father would punish him, and even less that his parents did not know where he was. He sank into his mind for a brief moment, lightly touching the familial bond he shared with his mother. He sent her the general feeling of his wellbeing, assuring her that he was in no danger, that he had not run off in anger, only in _need_.

She answered with her own strumming of the bond - always a stronger response than could logically be expected from a psi-neutral - and with a soft, warm feeling which was his mother's very Human way of saying "I love you".

In his mind he smiled, and returned his attention to the sky, and the _yel-nel-dathlar_ which could now be seen.

No, it mattered not at all that he would miss another long and overly formal Vulcan ceremony. It did not matter that his father would retreat even further away from him across the familial bond, and then exact some other punishment which would be infinitely less painful than that one action always was. It did not matter that he was a Vulcan in a Human's skin, or a Human in a Vulcan's skin, and he did not know which, and probably never would.

It didn't matter.

The stars didn't care.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_**Shom's'ar'kada**_ _-_ A rest from work; Vacation

 _ **Yon-gad-muf**_ \- Traditional Festival of Fire, celebrating Vulcan's natural resources

 _ **Nu'ri-travek**_ _-_ An organized group of young people; the Vulcan equivalent of Boy Scouts

 _Ka'athyra_ \- Vulcan lute

 _Than-tha_ \- Guide for a child's first mind-meld

 _Kash-nohv_ \- Mind-meld

 _Koon'ul_ \- Childhood betrothal

 _Kahs'wan_ \- Test of passage to adulthood/ordeal of Maturity

 _Le-matya_ \- Wild, cat-like, omnivorous Vulcan mammal, has poisonous claws, and green-white diamond pattern in its fur

 _Sehlat_ \- Large bear-like animal with 6 inch fangs, often domesticated as a pet

 _Shi'oren_ \- School; Place of study

 _Shi'Kahr_ \- Vulcan's capital city

 _Natara_ \- The Pre-Reform Vulcan god of water

 _ **Barkaya**_ _-_ A peanut-like legume.

 _Nevasa_ \- The name of Vulcan's sun.

 _ **Yel-nel-dathlar**_ \- Constellations, or familiar patterns of stars.

 _Aluk-hinek_ \- The Fishbone


	5. Chapter Four

_"All things begin with crisis."_

_\- Vulcan Proverb_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

It began as she had been told it would.

For the past five days, T'Pring had felt an intermittent malaise - an aching head with no discernible reasons for it, a slowness in her bones that made her blood seem a trifle thicker than usual, a speeding of her heart when she turned over in her sleep - nothing worth speaking of. Yesterday, it had taken two hours instead of one for her meditation regimen to rid her of daily stress. Considering that she was almost 18, and thus facing the last stage of choices in her educational career, namely, whether or not to apply for a scientific accreditation course from the Vulcan Academy, or to continue her mathematical research apprenticed to the local interstellar observatory station, it was no wonder she had a slight superfluity of stress.

She had been tending her mother's vegetable garden, feeling the sun across her face, and doing a few astrophysics problems in her head, in anticipation of the examination her class would have this next week, and then she found herself, hours later, kneeling in the soft soil, staring at a _shu'vasaya_ plant in the near-dark of early evening.

For a moment she nearly panicked, and then she realized she did have memories of those hours, but they were buried deep within her subconscious. She had knelt there, staring at a common plant for hours on end, and her mind had treated the time like some terrible psychotic trauma had taken place.

_What is happening to me?_

She had not recently been ill, save for minor complaints, and there was no known contagion in circulation near Gol at this time of year. . .

This time of year. Vulcan had reached the perihelion of its orbit approximately three weeks ago. Her mother had secluded herself for two days last week. She had been warned when she was seven that she would probably follow her mother's cycle when her own Time came.

For a moment, the panic returned in treble force.

This was no nameless malady. This was _plak-tauw_.

With deliberate speed, T'Pring gathered her gardening tools, putting them away with much less than her usual tidiness, and she. . . _hurried_. . . yes, hurried, indoors to her own Seclusion Room.

_It is logical to fear that which one does not know._

A Vulcan must learn to control that which he or she does not know.

She sat down on the soft mat provided, stilled her shaking hands, lit the _asenoi_ which was the room's sole decoration, and attacked her fear with logic.

Her mother was among those upon the _T'Yel-be-irak-sfek_ Cycle - not surprising, given Gol's geographic location, but even among the Reldai who had lived here for generations, there were still those on _Ka-wak-gad_ or _Las'hark-hayal_ rotations. For herself, _plak-tauw_ had the possibility to begin at any time, as she had been exposed to all three of the hormonal cues. But she appeared to be following her mother - that was most common.

_There is nothing to fear._

She was a woman, and for her the Blood Fever did not herald the specter of death and destruction that it did for men. The past few days had _not_ been strange, they had been _natural_.

Her mother had explained, once, long ago, that she would have a compulsion to meditate for long hours, feel sleepy, generally uneasy, and, perhaps, ill. Her mind would retreat into itself, it was possible she might not even remember her Time when it had finished. For a day or two, not more than three, she would need to stay, alone, in her Seclusion Room, and the fever would pass. Then the blood would come, all at once, in a great flow, soaking the special disposable mat every Seclusion Room had. This stage might hurt, but she must not be afraid of this blood - it was natural for her body to expel it. Then a healer would enter, and help her clean herself, perform a meld to be assured that her mental state had returned to normal, and give her food and water.

Her mother had also explained that she might feel the need to reach across her _t'hy'la_ bonds during the _plak-tauw_ \- but she must not. It would transfer her malady onto them - a thoroughly unfair action, unless they were a bonded couple, in which case he would most likely be allowed into the Seclusion Room with her, to help her bear the burden of her Time.

She had known all this a year before she had been bonded to Osu Sarek's son - by which name she still called him, being unwilling to discover her intended's true name via historical records or holo-news recordings, and she would not ask her mother. The nature of that particular _t'hy'la_ bond made her a little more than slightly uneasy. She had not touched it for nearly ten years. Would she need to now? And how would he respond if she did? Would he respond at all?

_Enough._

She was completely and inexplicably exhausted. Her mother had been correct - she did wish, almost compulsively, to meditate.

_There is nothing to fear._

She chanted a short mantra or two, letting her mind follow its own instincts, falling deeper and deeper into her _katra'i'ki'so'ht-te -_ the combined whole of her being.

_Nothing to fear. . ._

It felt so right, and so comfortable.

_Nothing to . . ._

She finally slipped down into her subconscious, and everything went dark. For an interminable amount of time, there was only the soft, empty blankness, such a relief after days of stress.

And then there was a light. It began far away, faint and flickering, like the lighted wick of her firepot, but as she drew nearer, it grew, and swelled into a sphere of gently glowing starlight, golden and fragile, yet still indomitable, with threads of warmth trailing off into infinite dark.

It was her _katra_. Her innermost being. The long threads of golden light must be her bonds.

For a moment, she felt joy, and accomplishment.

Then, the softly golden sphere began to grow again, pulling her closer until it filled nearly all of her vision, and the thin membrane of its wall was centimeters from her skin. She tried to hold back, tried not to touch it, but the pull was stronger than any force she had ever encountered before. The palm of one of her hands touched the sphere, and pulled her whole body into itself. As she passed through the golden wall, all her selfhood retreated, all her mind stuttered and turned off, her emotions exploded and evaporated along mental pathways scraped raw and sparking. What had looked like a soft, fragile golden thing was made of stabbing shards of adamant, like Vulcan diamonds. The wall shone around her, reflecting herself back in upon herself. The person that was T'Pring was now trapped inside her own _katra_.

Her mind screamed in the agony and terror of a soul who has seen Hell, and known it to wear her own face.

In the Seclusion Room, her body slumped bonelessly sideways, her eyes half-open and sightless, her breathing almost too slow to detect, and her heart rate fluttering, thready, entirely uncertain.

It was three days before anyone found her.

* * *

Spock made his way to bed, more tired than was his wont. Perhaps the journey back from Earth had been more wearisome than anyone had suspected, and perhaps his half-Vulcan anatomy was having a slightly difficult time re-adjusting to Vulcan's environmental conditions. However it was, he thought, as he washed himself and put on his night-clothes, he was decidedly eager to enter a sleep state tonight.

But it _was_ odd. . .

For the past several days, he had felt something - from within his mind or from without it, he was not sure - like a strange pulling, or a faint, almost indistinguishable calling from his homeworld, like a distant cry of a young _teresh-kah_ , hungry for its mate. He must return to his homeworld. He _must_. They were not getting there _fast_ enough. He had never been so relieved as he had been two days ago, when they put down on Vulcan.

The relief had not lasted long.

Since returning to Shi'Kahr, he had been absent-minded, almost clumsy, his mind drawn away from the simplest tasks, and his meditations strangely overpowering, prompting him to sleep at every opportunity.

He settled on his back, between pleasantly cool Earth-cotton sheets. He would remember to thank his mother. . . thank his mother. . . for them. . . tomorro-

Wait, what would he have to remember?

Unquestionably, he was tired.

Yes, that must be all it was.

* * *

Her eyes were open, but she could not see. The golden dark went on forever.

But that was alright, wasn't it? She didn't really want out of this smooth, warm place, did she?

A shadow, somehow blacker than the darkness, coalesced beyond the golden wall. Its silhouette became that of a _k'karee_ \- a venomous snake, coiling and uncoiling in empty space. It stopped, then fell or floated to the sphere of her subconscious. It slithered across the outer surface, parting in half long-ways to go around spots where the bonds radiated outwards, and then rejoining on the other side.

Its barbed tail treacherously touched one - flick!

T'Pring's whole world vibrated with the pain of that one touch.

_Wouldn't you do anything to prevent ssssuch a pain?_

She knew not what this was, or who, but without speaking, somehow she still asked it.

It answered.

_I am you._

There was a soft, soothing laugh that was somehow neither soft, nor soothing.

_Sssstay here with me, and I'll shhhhow you._

Show her? Show her what?

_Wonderssss like you've never imagined._

No. No she didn't want to stay. . .

_Of coursssse you do._

The voice was pleading, gentle, but laced with something she could not identify.

_Let me shhhhow you. . ._

The shadow curled and coiled, parting and re-joining, dancing in mesmerizing shapes all down the sides of the sphere, coming tantalizingly close to the bonds as it went, but never touching them again.

All at once she was aware that she was lying on the very bottom of the golden sphere, unable to move. She must not let that shadow touch the other side of where she lay! She did not know why this was imperative, she only knew that it was. She gathered all her will, trying to move, a finger, an eyelid, her tongue, anything! Her lungs were empty of air and she could not fill them. She knew not if she was dead, but she did know that if that shadow touched her, she would truly die.

_Ssssuch a limited idea. . . death._

It was getting closer, slowing down to tease her with its nearness.

_Let me sssshow you how to be immortal. . . how to. . . ssss. . . never die._

No. No!

It was nearly upon her.

And then she realized that she was lying on a spot that was an entrance to a bond. The shadow could hurt her, but could not touch her.

_Dear ssssweet child, I would never hurt you. . ._

Go away!

_You cannot be rid of me. . ._

The thing laughed again.

_Until you are rid of yoursssself. . ._

A hissing sigh went up from it, and as it parted in two to go around her, it pulled away from the surface of the sphere, dissipating in a poisonous black cloud.

_There are worsssse things than me, my dear. I can wait. . . . . . . . . . . . ._

As soon as it was gone, she gave a long shuddering moan of horror and relief, and found that she could move again. It was odd - she could make noises now, but there was no air, and she did not feel the need to breathe. She blinked from mere habit - there was no need for her to do it. Her mouth was dry, her heart did not beat, but she felt the absence of neither. She stretched all her limbs, and found she still had all her arms and legs, at least. She rolled over and stood, sliding a little on the glassy smooth inside surface of her _katra_. The spot where the bond joined it was warmer than the surrounding surface, but the entrance was just as hard, just as unrelenting.

She could not get out that way.

She began to walk up the side of the sphere, trying to get to another one of the bond entrances, unsure if the slippery surface would let her even get close, but it appeared gravity was entirely different here, for as she walked, each new step shifted the "down" direction. She walked a little faster, then began to run. She found that she could traverse the whole inside surface of the sphere, like it was the inverted surface of a planet.

She lay down on another doorway to a bond, hoping that it would open and let her out.

Only then did she think on the snake-thing's final words.

 _Worse_ things? There could hardly be anything worse than the evil part of herself coming out to play with her. . .

Could there?

Over the entrance to a bond close to where she was laying, a small thing appeared. It was difficult to see exactly what it was in the dim, fluttering starlight, but it hung there, a meter above the surface, neither moving nor making any sounds.

At first she decided to ignore it, but as it hung there, tiny and still, it grew in importance, until she was sure it was staring at her.

With a sigh, she almost threw herself into a standing position, and walked over to look at the thing. . . and, oddly enough, it _had_ been staring at her, this whole time.

It was her own painted wooden doll that her father had sent to her when she was born. It was a smoothly carved object, its legs one grooved piece, and its arms folded around its waist. There was nothing a baby could catch on something, or easily break. Its wide, almond shaped eyes glowed whitely in the dimness.

And it hung there, silently staring.

Not for anything would T'Pring have touched it.

She backed away, meaning to try another entrance to another bond, fully expecting the doll to follow her.

It did not.

It just went on staring.

For a moment, she had thought that if it had begun to follow her, she would have screamed.

Now, she knew that its silent motionlessness was far, far worse.

Its wide, expressionless eyes had trapped her vision - she could not look away. She continued to back up, rising along the surface of the wall. She stared deeply back at the thing, remembering all the endearing names she had called it, all the games she had played with it, the smooth safety of its surface, the solid comfort of its weight. . .

She had backed up far enough to break its hold on her vision.

There was a whining, grinding, cracking sound, like two massive pieces of glass were being ground together by a brutal hand.

Finally the doll moved, tilting back to try to catch her sight again.

T'Pring turned her back on it, and began to run.

It flew after her, rocketing faster than she could ever hope to go.

If the snake-thing had been her _I'ki_ , then this must be her _So'ht_. In her weakened, fractured state, there was no way she could suppress it.

Still she ran, trying to keep ahead of the flying doll, but it was too fast, too fast. . . it hit her with a mighty crunching blow, shattering her spine, she was certain, and sending her plummeting head-first into the solid adamant of the golden sphere. . .

* * *

In the middle of the night Spock awoke, sharply aware of a crick in his neck, and a pain in his head. He was baffled by it, since his sleeping posture was ideal and he had not injured himself recently.

He was also aware that he had been dreaming, but he was unsure of the subject of the dream.

At that moment he experienced a feeling so strange he was always afterwards at a loss to explain it, even through a meld.

He knew he was needed back, back in that same dream, but not him - his _katra_. A powerful sleepiness paired with a sharp insistence that he also stay awake drew him away, and, though he was still unsure, he fell rapidly back to sleep.

* * *

For a moment she thought she was looking in a mirror.

The face, hair, arms and torso were all of the T'Pring she knew from her own reflection, but her eyes were closed. How could she be seeing herself?

Then, a sparking shiver ran over her, making her aware of her surroundings. She was in one of the large bedrooms at her father's estate outside Shi'Kahr, and she was looking down at herself in the bed.

It did not occur to her to question why she was floating near the ceiling.

Off to one side of her prone form, her mother sat with needles and silken thread, embroidering robes like she always did when there was a crisis.

_I am the crisis._

Ordinarily, she would have felt ashamed for causing such an uproar, but she could not find it in herself to _feel_ anything just at the moment.

Strange. Such a state ought to have made her satisfied, but, as things were. . .

Her father entered the room, interrupting her musings.

She had seen him only four times - once at her _Than-Tha-Kash-Nohv,_ once here, in this house after her _khas-wan,_ and two times at Gol - once over ten years ago and again almost three years ago. He came only for help with his Time, never to see her. He had not gone to her mother those last two times, but to another Reldai, T'Kela. She had not borne him a child. T'Pring knew nothing else about her father save that his name was Velon, son of Vakha, of the clan H'kl Y'ner, of the House of Tassus.

Now she saw that his hair was a rare shade of dark rusty brown, and his form and bearing were fine. He had been gifted with great beauty, even for a son of a High Clan.

"The nurse says there is little more that can be done," his voice was clipped and hard, "Unless her mate. . ."

"If the boy has not saved her by now, then there is little chance he will ever do so," replied her mother, stoically.

"Had you betrothed them, as I requested you do, then he would have been there when she traveled too deep into her _katra_ , he would have added his strength to her own, and she would not now be in this _ritevakh_."

As he spoke, her father walked over and knelt by her bed, putting his hand protectively on the top of her head.

"I did all I could," said her mother, "As Osu Sarek did not offer his son for the full _koon'ul,_ it would have been impolite to insist, and illogical to - "

"And is it _logical_ to leave a child helpless in these matters? Is that polite?" Her father's voice registered clear amounts of anger and frustration.

"As I recall," her mother said, with censure in her tone, "It was you who suggested S'chn T'gai, and Sarek's son in particular, even knowing his wife's pedigree - or lack thereof. I did all as you suggested, even after our child chose my clan." She looked at Velon's hand on her daughter's head, "I would be within my rights to take her away now. . ."

"No!" Her father nearly shouted the word, "She has not even been here a full day, you _must_ not - you _will_ not take her - T'Sai, I forbid it." Her father's hand tightened a little in her hair. "You brought her here so that I might exercise my right to help my child, and you must let me. Even if the only help I can offer is to say farewell."

"You would leave her to the mercies of a half-Human who clearly does not know what to do?"

Velon's other hand came up, and wrapped around T'Pring's upper arm. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up, straight into her mother's eyes.

"You know why I came to you when I did, T'Sai. It was not because my wife was not willing or able to help me, nor was there any medical reason why she ought not. You know what curse is on my line - the state my father and two brothers died in, and the state my sister is in, even now."

He looked down at his daughter, with such care and tenderness in his eyes, T'Pring could scarcely believe it was directed at her.

"I came to you because I had decided that one with my blood ought not to father children."

He looked back up at her mother, "It was cruel fate that you were burdened with one of my kin for a child - it is why I never returned to you. Out of fear of further burdening you. You know this?"

Her mother nodded.

"Then why did you not do as I requested, and betroth her completely? It might even yet delay the Madness, and it _would_ have prevented. . . this."

"It is _pon'farr_ , Velon, with too strong of a _plak-tauw_ ," her mother's voice nearly stumbled over the words they did not speak, even amongst themselves, "Either she will die, or she will awaken."

"Wrong T'Sai," said her father, "There is a third, far more terrible option - she will awaken, but she will not be the T'Pring you know any more - she will be a stranger, and will wear a stranger's eyes." Her father's eyes glistened with impossible tears, "Would you have that _t'sai_?" He had said "my lady", not her mother's name,"Would you have her be a broken vessel for the rest of her mindless days?"

"Of course not. . ."

"Then why did you not ensure her safety? It is our way to ensure the safety of our men - we will go to any lengths to protect them, even giving up good strong women to those who do not deserve them - why do we do less for our women, T'Sai? Why?"

Her mother blinked and did not answer.

"You _knew_ of my kin's affliction - how could you not? When I first came to you, I nearly killed you."

"The fault was mine - that first day, I did not make the bond strong enough."

"It was _not_ your fault - me and mine have always been thus. We have no medium, no escalation period, no warning before our natures turn on us. It has been made trebly hard for us to accept our emotions, T'Sai - the ordinary avenues of treatment do not work. Either we are cold and stern, far colder and sterner than we ought to be, or we are mad with rage, or passion, or. . ." He broke off, and lowered his voice, gaining some measure of control over the emotions he had been showing, "I have heard that Humans have names for such afflictions - one of which I believe is called "bipolar syndrome". A normal Vulcan, stripped of logic, might appear to have this illness, but me and mine. . . we _do_. And it is far worse in us than it ever was in any Human." He paused, getting further control of himself, "The Humans appear to have cured it in themselves, and many other such emotional illnesses, late last century."

"Was that why you insisted upon Osu Sarek's son?" Her mother sounded strangely subdued.

"It is." He looked down at the sleeping form of herself again, the care in his eyes more distant than before, but still a most welcome thing to see. "I had hoped that the Human strain in him, mixed with the blood of Surak himself, might quell some of the difficulties for our daughter."

"Why did you not explain before?"

"Besides being hardly given the chance, I had assumed you understood."

"She still chose the Reldai when the choice was given her."

"It is natural that she would. When not given to one extreme, she would be given to the other." Her father sighed a little, "You admit that even considering undergoing _kolinahr_ **is** extreme?"

"Of course, but, it is necessary," her mother paused a little, "You know she has not taken the final step?"

"She has not?" There was hope in her father's voice.

"No. She has two years left of _c'thia_ training before she can be accepted for the ritual."

He father nodded, "Still, the decisions she has made - and those that have been made for her - were ill-informed at best, and left her little defense for the intense regression her _katra_ would experience during her Time."

"It is never easy to experience the loss of self, Velon." Her mother sounded very slightly compassionate, "Whether it is like it is for men, with too much of self, or like it is for women, with too little, it is never easy to bear."

"Yes, that is true."

"Is she truly lost, then?"

"Unless her mate comes to help her. . . as you say, with a man's _too much_ of self, he would be able to balance her _katra_ , but as it is. . ."

"They are not well suited."

"I am not so sure." Her father reached out, preparing to meld with her.

"Kroikah! You cannot, Velon!" Her mother fairly jumped from her chair, dropping the robe she had been working on, scattering thread and a handful of glittering, dartlike needles across the carpeted floor, "It is Forbidden, even for you. For any of us to try and save her. . . it is _kae'at k'lasa_."

"I know the law, T'Sai." Her father reached for her face again, "And have no fear. It is not I who will save her."

At the moment her father touched her mind, the floating mist that she had become began to fall, and all at once she was back within the sphere of starlight that was her _katra_.

* * *

The golden light was dimmer now, like the stars close to dawn, when what little shining they could make would die, never to be reborn in quite the same way again.

She wanted to feel frightened - of death, or of insanity, a living death - but she was alone, here in this place, and could not muster the will to feel anything. She was tired.

So tired. . .

She lay down on the nearest entrance to a bond, and wished for sleep.

It did not come.

Instead, another shadow grew in the darkness beyond the wall, a shadow circling one of her bonds, and flying down its length. It crackled a little, like a tiny thunderstorm were housed within its grey mists, and the gold thread of starlight in its center were lightning.

The ring of shadow came to rest upon the outer surface of her _katra_ , and resolved itself into the silhouette of two hands, one pressed upon either side of the bond-place.

Suddenly the sphere was filled with the scent of steaming stones, of rust-red boulders made dark and fragrant by the first winter rain. A blessed scent, too precious to be real.

" _Ko-fu_ ," said the bond, speaking from a great distance, " _Ko-fu_ , you will remember."

Remember?

"Yes, _ko-fu_. . ." the shadow-hands pushed at her, very gently, "Remember. . ."

The insistent word brought a sudden purpose to her wandering mind. She leapt to her feet and ran to a bond-place at the opposite end from where the hands were, but that was good. This place was where she needed to be. She lay down on her stomach, and pressed her face against the warm, diamond-hard circle.

It was the same bond her wooden doll had appeared over; the same one the shadow-snake had touched to cause her pain.

She remembered the moment she had first entered this place, and the scraping, stabbing terror. . .

She screamed.

It was a scream of utter need, of finality, of the nearest one can come to death without taking that last breath.

It was a cry for help.

And it worked.

She rolled away from the bond-place, trying to recover from the effort of such a soul-rending sound, and looked back to the bond where the shadow-hands were, but they were gone.

When she looked again at the the bond-place into which she had screamed, someone else was laying upon it.

It was the boy. Her boy. Sent to be her _shayuf'pach-te_. Her last resort, which ought to have been her first.

"Who are you?" they both asked at the same time.

"I am T'Pring," she said faintly, as the boy sat up and straightened his sleep-tunic, "And you are my _T'hy'la_."

He gingerly stood, sliding as she had done at first, "I am Spock," he said, "What is this place?"

Spock. Spock, his name was Spock. . .

She was unsure why this was so important to her, but she repeated it to herself many times, so as to remember it.

"We are within my _katra_. I cannot get out."

"Have you tried?"

"Oh, yes, and the bonds would not open for me. . ."

"Then why am I here?"

"You are the only one who has the right."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"I do not know."

He looked contemplative, but not frustrated. He came over and sat next to where she lay.

"This is _plak-tau_?"

"No," she shook her head, "It is a coma caused by _plak-tauw_."

"I have never heard of this."

"It is the woman's Time - you did not know?"

"My mother's Times are much different than a Vulcan woman's."

He looked sad, not ashamed.

"But I have seen my mother and father care for each other - each in their own way. My father cares for my mother in his Vulcan way, and she cares for him in her Human way."

"And this works?"

"They are both still alive, and sane." It was clear he knew there were some who would question the latter, but such ones were unimportant at this time.

"I see," she said, "Then may we try our way first, and then the Human way?" She held out her hand, first two fingers outstretched.

"That is reasonable," he agreed, and gave her two of his fingers to complete the embrace.

He was tentative, but not shy with the _ozh'esta_ , and soon he was caressing her hands, one after the other, awakening her emotions for the first time in what seemed like years.

She did not yet feel the need to breathe, nor had her heart started beating again, but she finally began to feel. . . _alive_. . . once more. The fractured parts of her _katra_ were drawing together, but not yet. . . not yet. . .

"Spock, Spock. . ." she whispered, "I want. . . I want. . ."

He gathered her into his arms then, and pressed his mouth to the side of her head. He shifted slightly, and did the same thing to her ear. And then it seemed he could not stop - he kissed her eyelids, chin and hair, over and over his mouth was pressed to her nose and cheeks, and the side of her neck.

All of a sudden, he stopped, looking at her like he was wondering why he had just done that.

Then, very gently, he touched his lips to her mouth.

She had not expected the Human caresses to be the stronger ones, but this. . . it was overpowering, beautiful, terrifying, too much and not enough - it was like everything at once.

Her heart started beating, her lungs filled with air, and they fell through the bond.

He was a golden thread of starlight, still wrapped around her, and carrying her out of the prison of her soul.

There was a violent knotting of pain from within her, but he was still there, carrying her. . . carrying her. . .

They both dissolved into the mist of memory.

* * *

She opened her eyes.

She wished she hadn't, for a heavy mess of green-stained cloth was being lifted from between her thighs. She flicked her eyes to the other figures there with her, hoping they were not the shadowy terrors she had been living with for so long now.

As she looked from face to face, from her mother, to her father, to the nurse, to the healer who had been summoned to remove her first cast-off blood, T'Pring realized, finally, that she was awake.

She wept.

It was this moment - after the blood-fever but before the return of logic - that Vulcan minds were at their most vulnerable. She _must_ control her emotions, or there was the possibility that she could slip back into the Shadowlands. She searched in her mind for the golden thread of starlight that had saved her from that terrible dark place, but found it had already closed back off. Still, it was a warm surety, locked away within her secret heart. Spock had kept her sane. She _was_ sane. She could control herself again.

Her father dried her eyes.

She looked at him, with the care buried deep in his expression, and his many actions of understanding that she had never experienced at Gol. He was a worthy father, far more so than she had ever credited. He deserved better from her than what she had so far given him.

Then she turned to her mother, very clear and sure of her decision.

"I am going to stay here, Ko'mekh."

She saw her mother blink, and her father almost smile, and then, at last, she fell into a deep and natural sleep.

* * *

That morning, Spock awoke with blood upon his lips, and sweat staining his sleep-tunic. Judging by the imprint of his own teeth on the inside of his mouth, the blood was his own, but, by the smell of it, the sweat was _not_. A pheromone transfer, then. She had given him her affliction, and he had borne it, as she could not. It would not have been unusual, except that he had only ever been told of such a thing happening in the opposite direction.

He said nothing to anyone, washed his mouth, put his tunic in the basket to be cleaned, and tried not to think about the dream which he knew was not a dream.

He must speak with T'Pau.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_**Shu'vasaya**_ \- A hardy desert creeper with trumpet-shaped leaves, and very small blue flowers. It produces a bright green, edible gourd. The seeds of this gourd are ground into the high protein flour most commonly used in Vulcan breads and cakes.

 _Plak-tau_ \- Blood-fever, the final part of a male's pon'farr

 _ **Plak-tauw**_ _-_ Blood-fever, the primary event of a female's menstrual cycle

 _Pon'farr_ \- The Mating Time, or Time of Mating refers to the entirety of the Vulcan reproductive phenomena; occurs generally once every 7 years for adult males, twice a year for adult females.

 _ **T'Yel-be-irak-sfek**_ \- The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by the perihelion and aphelion of Vulcan's orbit.

 _ **Ka-wak-gad**_ \- The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by Vulcan's equinoxes.

 _ **Las'hark-hayal**_ \- The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by Vulcan's solstices.

 _K'karee_ \- Mottled blue-grey poisonous snake; found in the desert

 _I'ki_ \- Id, or Desire, part of the katra; tightly controlled by mature Vulcans

 _ **So'ht**_ \- Ego, or Emotion, part of the katra; often highly suppressed by trained Vulcans

 _ **Shayuf'pach-te**_ \- Super-Ego, the strongest of all parts of the katra, the root of Desire and Emotion and the home of Conscience and Reason

 _Katra_ \- The soul or the living essence of a Vulcan; a combination of soul and memory. Contraction of the term " _katra'i'ki'so'ht-te_ ".

 ** _Katra'i'ki'so'ht-te_** \- Complete soul, or fullness of being, referencing one's entire memory, and its state of oneness with the soul; the full-length version of the term "katra".

 _Teresh-kah_ \- A silver-colored bird-like predator; a Vulcan eagle

 _Ritevakh_ \- A coma; state of deep and often prolonged unconsciousness; usually the result of disease or injury

 _C'thia_ \- The philosophy of reality and truth

 _T'sai_ \- Lady, or "My Lady"; Female honorific. Can be used as a proper name; means "ladylike".

 _Kroikah_ \- Literally - "Stop immediately!". Vulcan imperative phrase, often used as an expletive.

 _Kae'at k'lasa_ \- Mind-rape; the act of forcing one's will upon another using one's psionic abilities, especially the mind-meld. By Vulcan law, it is a crime punishable by death.

 _Ko-fu_ \- Daughter; a female child

 _Ozh'esta_ \- Finger embrace; the touching of the index and middle fingers to another person's index and middle fingers. In Vulcan culture, it is considered an acceptable public gesture between bondmates and/or _t'hy'la_.


	6. Chapter Five

_"It is often thought that Vulcans generally disapproved of Humanity, from the time of First Contact until well after the Great Destruction. This is erroneous. What is by so many perceived as distaste in a Vulcan, is, very often, the remnants of envy."_

_\- From "Vulcan And Human History" - Vol. 3, Ch. 12, by S'chn T'gai T'Pau, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The tomatoes had not started as they ought to have done.

T'Pau clucked her tongue at the tiny malformed sprouts, wondering momentarily if it was the soil composition, the air/water mixture in the greenhouse, or if this batch of seeds were somehow genetically inferior, and then the scent rising from the tray of sprouting compound told her that T'Dekk had once again sprayed the wrong fertilizing agent on the Earth-origin plants. Which agent was used did not matter greatly to a strong, mature plant, well started and fully rooted, but to the delicate seedlings in the sprouting trays, the wrong chemicals could often be disastrous.

She lifted the wasted tray of sproutlets, setting it on the anti-grav sled beside her. Then she quickly programmed the unit to take the tray to T'Dekk's room, and leave it there. No other reprimand ought to be needed, though it was true that T'Dekk was a woman of, perhaps, less-than-optimal memory capacity. Previous lapses had not ruined a full tray of seedlings, however, and T'Pau was sure that such a waste of time and effort, especially when it involved one of her most prized offworld heirloom varieties, would bring the other woman up short, hopefully cementing the need for greater care into her mind.

Fortunately, it was still early enough in the season to start again.

T'Pau sat at one of the worktables, and began to assemble a new tray for her justly famous tomatoes.

Well. To be completely honest and fair, they were also Amanda's.

During the last ten or eleven generations, Vulcan culture had been through some essential, if not entirely rapid, changes. Vulcans were nearly always cautious of change, but it was still natural for cultures to evolve, and they did, albeit reluctantly. Her own Clan and House, she thought, with a sparing measure of pride, had been on the forefront of these changes for several centuries.

Besides being the Clan from which the First Contact with Humanity had been made, they had been among the first to put an emphasis on diplomacy in interplanetary contacts, rather than a close-minded (albeit logical) assumption of their own superiority; Among the first to advocate for non-essential trade agreements with races they had previously only had superficial dealings with; Among the first to encourage _tourism_ as a means of inter-species communication; Among the first to champion modernization of their ancient gods and the festivals that went along with them; And among the first to allow that childhood betrothals often spawned many more difficulties than benefits.

Skon had been her choice-mate, not her childhood _t'hy'la_. He had been. . . _passionate_ was the wrong word, and so was _kind_. _Noble_ was better, but _genteel_ was too. . . soft. . . and neither word could fully encompass the force of his personality. He had, indescribably, _fit_ her, in so many ways. It was much, much more often than twice a year that T'Pau felt his absence.

She remembered the mild scandal that had been her pregnancy with Sarek. He had been conceived entirely outside either her or Skon's Times.

Perhaps. . . perhaps that was one of the reasons for her son's. . . _progressive._ . . choice in mates.

But for all that, there were traditions and deeply held beliefs that had never changed, and most likely would not - not for a very long time.

One of these was the almost secret tradition of Dowry.

It was not well known or understood even outside of the insular High Clans and their ritual culture, but Dowry was among their oldest and most important traditions. It differed from most Human ideals of Dowry in that the monetary value of the items shared was, in a large part, irrelevant. The ideal of it was that when two families shared a connection as deep as two people given in marriage, those families ought also to share in each other's particular gifts and talents also.

If the family of the bride had, for example, a long history of being tailors, and the woman herself had a particular talent for making _naric_ jelly, then the family of the groom had a right to expect gifts of these two things. Meanwhile, the groom's family might be particularly known for skill in stonework, and the male himself might have a talent for music, in which case, the bride's family might logically expect their _glat-kov_ \- the sign-stones that marked the borders of their lands - to be mended or replaced, and the younger children among their clan to have a willing music tutor.

It was a fine old tradition, not commonly known among their interstellar neighbors, but preserved and cherished amongst themselves.

Thus, given that Sarek had seemingly set himself to break down _all_ known traditions, it had been a thorough shock when Amanda had arrived on Vulcan, bearing nearly four dozen packets of heirloom-quality Earth seeds, claiming that they were her Dowry, and that T'Pau was obligated to grow and nurture them. Clearly Sarek had told his wife what would be expected of her, but, in T'Pau's mind at least, it had _not_ been expected. Not from Sarek, certainly not from a Human woman, and manifestly not a Dowry of such exotic quality or (as she later learned) such incredible monetary value. From beautifully rare purple carrots, to delicate haricot verts, to three types of fragrant basil, to tiny golden potatoes, and even a highly endangered White Peach tree seed, Amanda had brought an impressively wide selection of her homeworld's flora to Vulcan, and was righteously insistent that she be allowed to cultivate them all.

It had ended with Amanda taking over almost half of T'Pau's own personal greenhouse for several months, while she got the bulk of the seeds properly started, and the caretakers fully instructed in the care of Earth-plants.

Her daughter-in-law had then insisted that she be allowed to incorporate the fruits of the plants into the clan's diet - claiming that a little variety hurt no one, and those vegetables or fruits that one person did not like, would surely be acceptable to someone else.

It had taken time, but not too long after the second harvest, it became clear that nearly everyone in the household had developed a taste for one or more of the Earth foods, many preferring them over the Vulcan equivalents. Sarek had naturally led the way, stating many times that he preferred the habañero peppers Amanda grew to even the local variety of _yon-savas_ available to them.

T'Pau herself had formed a preference for the deep-red colored Cuostralee tomatoes, and would not let anyone other than herself do the main portion of the work involved with growing them.

The first time she had reprimanded a servant for attending to them when she had not expressly commanded it, Amanda had been there, and the Human woman had _laughed_ \- laughed outright - and then looked T'Pau in the eyes and said she had told her so.

It was then, and only then, that T'Pau had relented in her attitude towards Sarek's eccentric wife. It had been the first, but not the last time her daughter-in-law had surprised her with her wisdom, and impressed her with her tenacity. While the Human woman was not and never could be _all_ that T'Pau had hoped for her son, she had been forced to admit that there were many endearing qualities about Amanda, her creativity and curiosity not least among them, and not even a Klingon could fault her bravery.

T'Pau carefully smoothed a thin layer of fine, clean gravel over the base of the newly assembled sprouting tray. Then she measured out equal portions of the specially-formulated Earth-biomatter-specific planting soil and the nitrogen-oxygen balancing gel, and with a trowel, slowly, thoroughly mixed them. When it had become a soft, smooth, homogeneous paste, she spread it evenly over the gravel. Then, she placed a fine wire mesh over the prepared tray, which separated the sprouting compound into thirty small, fertile squares.

She reached for the stasis containers that held the heirloom seeds, choosing out the one that held the tomatoes without having to read the label. Last year had delivered such an entirely successful crop that it had been impossible to choose only the usual forty perfect specimens to keep for seed, and T'Pau had doubled it. The container holding the heirloom tomato seed was twice as full as almost all the others.

Last week, Amanda had smiled at that, too.

Deliberately, T'Pau counted out thirty of them, and then placed each one in the center of its own square of sprouting compound. Then, she lifted the wire mesh away, sprinkled a thin layer of the special soil over the seeds, and lightly sprayed the whole tray with water that had been fortified with Earth minerals.

She carefully placed the tray in the space on the starting table that had been left empty by the ruined set. Then she picked up the stylus next to the PADD assigned to this table and left _very_ specific instructions regarding their care.

Satisfied, she took up her hand-clippers and a small woven _mevak_ work-basket, and went outdoors.

She had decided long ago that her garden ought to be a thing of note - among the clan at the very least, if not among all who respected the House of Surak. Making it that way had been the work of nearly a full hundred years by this time, seeing that her father had given the greenhouse to her when she had been just twenty-one. In his own grand, authoritarian manner he had been encouraging her in a talent she had then only just discovered.

The Clan House was, of necessity, the largest building S'chn T'gai possessed, with rooms for at least a hundred married couples, their children, and all the attending servants they would need. Naturally, only a few dozen people, including the servants, lived here continually - it was only on High days, festivals, or full-clan ceremonies that everyone congregated here. Even Sarek lived a few kilometers away.

Still, it was the central building of the Clan, and most impressive of its kind.

The Eastern Wing, where her private rooms were located, enclosed an expansive courtyard. An ideal place for a garden, this courtyard had been her especial project ever since her father had made it clear her skill with growing things ought to be a skill she _used,_ not merely _possessed_. He had seen to it that a long, winding pathway of excellently fitted stones had been laid down, and that the soil within the huge quadrangle had been tempered, fertilized and softened, but everything else he had left to her.

Her first projects had been to put in a border of _shu'vasaya_ , and to set out a few dozen stone pots filled with flowering _plomeek_ , reasoning that, if they were growing staple foods, at the least there would be no waste.

After that, slowly, year-by-year, the garden had been filled in. In places there were great, curving swaths of herbs with one Sitting Stone in the middle, in other spots there were the hardy _ic'tan_ trees, sculpted as if by wind, but actually painstakingly trimmed by hand. Everywhere there was clean, manicured gravel, interspersed with richly well-watered soil. There were large patches of vegetables, many fruiting or edible cacti, and in the center of it all, a beautifully tall _sher'khah_ tree, with its smooth grey, almost black skin, and dry, paper-thin leaves the color of honey.

Many of Amanda's Dowry plants had ended up out here. The three different aloes, and the two fruiting cacti had adapted with ease, as had the agave plant, and the sage. The three types of spicy peppers were in their element. Even the peanuts had managed to survive well, though they still needed more water than was optimal.

The one thing that had shocked everyone, and still made almost every visitor stand still and stare, was the peach tree.

Everyone in the household had balked when she had announced that she intended to plant the rare white peach outdoors in the western corner of the garden. Even Amanda had tried to dissuade her, but she had stood firm.

For, in the Western corner, there was a tiny natural spring - one of the reasons her father had so strongly insisted that she make a garden here. It was very small - the pool it made was not more than twenty centimeters across, but it was steady, deep, cool, and true. It was only in that corner that the pale, pale green Vulcan grass - the only species of true grass that Vulcan possessed - would consent to grow. It was there that T'Pau herself had planted the peach tree, when it was five years old, and strongly rooted.

Everyone had despaired.

They had all been wrong.

She placed her finely woven workbasket beneath one of the small _induka_ trees that marked the entrance to the obsidian-stone rimmed circle of grass, and removed her hand trimmers from her pocket. She reached up, and began to remove the dead or superfluous leaves and branches of the tree. It waved in the almost imperceptible morning breeze, it's Earth-green leaves filtering the Vulcan sunlight like it was a perfect emerald. The spring made gurgling sounds at her feet.

It was a tiny spring, but still of use. A small force field had been put in place over it so it would not evaporate - it could be disabled easily if one wanted to drink from the pool - but most of the time it rippled and gurgled protected from the harsh Vulcan atmosphere. To most observers, it was merely a small pool of moving water, but actually it bubbled up from no-one knew where, and drained away down a long, infinitesimal crack in Vulcan's crust. Of course, it did not actually drain away any more - the water was caught now by a special reservoir which fed a sophisticated underground irrigation system. It, alone and thoughtless, very nearly _was_ the life of this garden.

Of course, it was why she had planted the peach tree here, of all places. Only here would it be assured the water that an Earth-tree needed. Only here would it get the gentler morning sun, and be protected by the shade of the house from the harsher afternoon heat. Even so, for the first three years it had been outdoors, it did not flower, and from time to time a cool-air force field had to be erected to keep it from entirely burning up. Then, on the fourth year, it had flowered, and brought forth a tiny, unimpressive crop. Amanda had sighed, but still gathered the fruit, not letting any of the family have even a taste, saying she had plans for these, the rarest of Earth-fruits.

And then, the fifth year it had lived outdoors, it had burst forth in a snow of abundant flowers, and the crop of fruit was astonishing beyond measure for a small, young tree so far from home.

T'Pau had told her daughter-in-law that this time _she_ had told _her_ so.

Amanda had smiled, gathering the greater portion of the fruit for her "plans", but letting the family share in the bounty this time.

T'Pau had let a sparkle of approval gleam for a moment in her eyes.

It had been that year which Amanda had decided to once again surprise her Vulcan family. She had planned and instigated a full-clan dinner-feast, for the occasion of hers and Sarek's tenth wedding anniversary. The clan had shaken its collective head, for such things were unheard of in their culture, but Amanda was the Wife of the Heir, and her request was not unreasonable.

Amanda had given strict instructions to the chefs, but had done no cooking herself - she knew by then that to do so would have been tantamount to declaring herself an outsider* - but still what the kitchens had produced for dessert that day had been instantly named, and was still called among the clan - "Amanda's Food".

The peaches had been sliced and placed in shells of pastry, sprinkled with nectar of agave and sweet spices, and baked until the fruit bubbled in its own syrup, and the crust was as golden as _sher'khah_ leaves.

Amanda had called them "peach pies", but many in the clan, and not just the children, could scarcely accept that they were a traditional food from Earth, insisting that Amanda must have invented them.

T'Pau's eyes had twinkled, and Amanda had not held back her laughter.

The clan had certainly been surprised, but it was increasingly impressed upon T'Pau that this was no bad thing. . .

In fact, it was good, she reasoned, that Amanda had taken to surprising her Vulcan family at every opportunity, for T'Pau had become accustomed to expecting her daughter-in-law's pronouncements to be unexpected, and this had allowed the older woman to remain outwardly as calm as ever when, soon after their tenth anniversary, Amanda and Sarek had announced that they were expecting a child. A naturally conceived child, from Amanda herself, not a test tube or adoption agency.

It was impossible to express how deeply this surprise had shaken T'Pau.

First, it was known to be impossible. Genetic scientists had been working on the problem for at least two generations to her knowledge, probably much longer, and all of them agreed - there was a fundamental incompatibility between the genes that determined blood type, and thus, basic cell respiratory and reproductive mechanics. In Humans, the mother's genetics dictated the child's blood composition. In Vulcans, the father's genetics were the decisive factor. Attempting to naturally combine Human and Vulcan reproductive cells - using either Vulcan or Human ova - had always resulted in a successful fusing, followed by an almost immediate breakdown of cell components, caused by a catastrophic failure in the cell division mechanics. Attempting to genetically modify one or the other reproductive cells had been highly unsuccessful in a myriad of other ways - in short, according to all experts, it was completely impossible.

Second, she had resigned herself to adopted grandchildren from Sarek as soon as he had declared he intended to marry a Human. She would never expect an alien woman to undergo the dangers of an inter-species pregnancy for so archaic a reason as "purity" of bloodline. There were others who could take up the title Scion of Surak - her son owed nothing to the clan in that regard. She knew that many Vulcans would not agree with her, but she found it merely the result of reason. Logically, Sarek and Amanda would adopt, and she, T'Pau, would accept that child as theirs, whatever its race or origin. Perhaps that child would not have inherited the clan's most ancient titles, but it would have still belonged to them.

Finally, it had been made known to her that Amanda had already experienced several miscarriages, the last of these giving her a severe case of copper poisoning, and she had thought that afterwards her daughter-in-law had taken the very logical step of _ensuring_ she could not have children.

And then had come the announcement. She was going to have a child.

It was only logical that this Human woman's life had taken on an importance greater than the sum of her doings. She had earned her place in the clan. She deserved to be protected, and if that meant she would never have children. . .

But she was _going_ to have a child.

To lose Amanda, now, would have meant disaster, not just for Sarek, but for T'Pau personally, and the clan collectively.

It was only logical.

As T'Pau remembered the year of Amanda's pregnancy, she clipped the peach tree leaves with more vigor than was strictly necessary. The memory of those tense months was not a soothing one.

Amanda had been constantly ill, her immune system weakened, and her metabolic functions highly disturbed. There had been two times when she had fainted, and T'Pau had never seen such fear as on the face of her son when he had held his unconscious wife, unsure of her survival, and doubly unsure of the life she carried within her.

But, the child had been born, and Amanda had lived, and throve in her new position of Mother of the Heir. Sarek had done well to name the boy Spock, for his presence had indeed brought much peace.

For two days the clan had reveled in the quiet joy of knowing their name would go on.

It had been then that the geneticists had descended.

Naturally, T'Pau had not been ignorant of the rumors that had been circulating about Amanda's pregnancy. Many of them had even been spawned on Vulcan, not just on Earth. Quite besides the crude references to "the milkman" or "the postman" it had been put in circulation that her pregnancy was entirely a hoax, and when the time came, a Vulcan child would be produced, but it wouldn't be _genetically_ Sarek's or Amanda's child.

Consequently, when the scientists came in force to inspect the infant, T'Pau had allowed only the family's most trusted healer inside, and had restricted even him to one single blood draw, knowing he would do the requisite genetic tests proving her grandson's legitimacy, and then she had bid the rest depart. Into the ensuing uproar she had stated, with all the firm dignity of her years and position, that it was clear they were not here for scientific reasons, as it was extremely logical to assume that the child was the result of his parents' adaptation to each other, and if they at all accepted this fact, then why had they not been interested in Amanda beforehand, and why, for that matter, had they not clamored for an audience with the thriving peach tree in her garden? Both it and her daughter-in-law were marvels of adaptive tenacity, and as it was now obvious that they were not the objects of true scientific interest, she was convinced that their current celebrity stemmed from an emotional source and not a scientific one. If her grandson wished, after he attained his majority, to become an object of scientific research, then she would not stand in his way, but until then, the child would receive only the most essential professional attention, and they all would leave. Immediately.

As she thought back on the incident, she realized she had come within two steps of actually ordering the house guards to attack them.

She would never forget the thanks in Amanda's eyes when she had told her of her words to the scientists, but to T'Pau, it was mere logic. To allow a hoard of theorists and all their conflicting ideas into the house, let them maul her grandson about, and then argue over the results, would have been disgustingly illogical.

Amanda had insisted on thanking her anyway.

T'Pau did not tell Amanda, or Sarek either, but three weeks later two of the scientists had shown up again. Their names were Sanavalko Lowai and Ellen Steele - a married couple, she a Human, he a Betazoid, and they both specialized in xeno-epigenetics. When they had been granted audience with her, they had asked, not to see Spock or Amanda, but to see her garden.

T'Pau had said yes.

Sanavalko had been impressed, highly emotional and shockingly mentally vocal about the extent of the adaptations the Earth plants had made. The psionic energy poured off of him in waves, greatly disturbing her mental patterns until she had asked him to stop. It had taken her several minutes to remember that Betazoids found emotionalism and self expression to be the height of propriety, and that his mental projections were not intended to be rude or invasive. As Humanly expressive as Ellen was, in comparison to her husband, she was highly subdued.

It had been an odd experience for her, realizing - through a pair of scientists - just how well suited to a Vulcan family Amanda truly was.

Nevertheless, they had impressed her as open-minded and true to their work, and she had discreetly kept in touch with them ever since. It pleased her to know that if Spock ever did need help in these matters, she would have a source that she trusted ready to hand.

So rare a child as Spock deserved to be protected just as much as did his mother.

As such, it had been all the more baffling to her why Sarek, in order to obtain a child, had allowed himself to go against nearly every tradition Vulcans had held sacred for millennia, but when it came to that very son, insisted on such stringent traditionalism. T'Pau had nearly shaken her head at the ill-advised choice of a Reldai's child for Spock's _ko-kugalsu_ , but at least Sarek had not been so foolish as to initiate a full betrothal. At home, she greatly suspected, Spock was being subjected to Vulcan culture the way it had been 400 years ago - far less understanding, and much, much more repression.

 _Not that we are. . ._ permissive _, even now._

Spock had, apparently, taken it all remarkably well, but he was a lone child, distant, and very difficult to know, even through the familial bond.

And, of course, his situation had been made worse by her own mistake. . .

Carefully she gathered all the peach tree clippings into the workbasket, and made her way to the cleverly concealed composting bin on the other side of the quadrangle.

It was never easy to contemplate her own errors, especially during her morning routine.

She had been the obvious choice for her grandson's _Kash-Nov_ ceremony, and she knew that she had been far too overbearing with her emotions for his first time in a full meld. It had not been intentional, it had merely been a logical curiosity mixed with an understandable inexperience with very young minds. He had been nothing of what she had expected, and her surprise had overwhelmed her. He was stronger in his psionic presence than most _adult_ Vulcans she had melded with - the first surprise. The next had been that his emotional composition did not show any adverse signs of mutation from being a hybrid - a valid concern for a child of his type - emotionally he was both Human and Vulcan, fully functional and integrated. Added to this was that he had an _instinctual_ control of many mental impulses that, to her knowledge, _every_ Vulcan mind had to be taught to restrain. As she had examined his _katra_ , his personality had impressed her with its almost complete _Vulcan-ness_. . . but she had let him feel her surprise every time she had seen a Human part of him.

It had been a great mistake.

Of course, he had taken her surprise for disapproval - what else was a child to think? - and the meld had left him convinced of his otherness, of his basic inability to _belong_ with a place or among any people.

It was the kind of mistake that could rule the fate of a life, and was therefore not easily corrected.

He had shown a marked dislike of the mind-meld ever since, and T'Pau certainly did not blame him.

But. . . perhaps Sarek did.

She gave a small sigh, rolling the small boulder back over the opening to the underground composting bin. It had been over ten years, and she had not yet found the right way to make things right with her grandson.

Perhaps there was no right way. Perhaps it merely needed to be done.

She made her way to her most preferred Sitting Stone - a smooth, red-gold seat in the middle of a long rectangle filled with the finest pure-white sand, raked so precisely that the smallest leaf or twig showed like a beacon on the surface of a reflecting pool. It was surrounded by evenly spaced, perfectly conical _ic'tan_ trees, and nine round, smooth red stepping stones took her to the place she often chose for her morning's meditation.

A carefully tended _tir-nuk_ grew from a deep recess in one edge of the worn and rounded rock. It must have been too cold in the night, for the tall bloom that had been so fine yesterday, was limp and dying today. She raised her clippers to trim off the dead purple flowers before they fell and sullied the bright white sand, but a nearby sound of feet crunching on gravel gave her pause.

" _Ko'mekh-il_?"

It was Spock's voice.

" _Ko'mekh-il_?"

And just when she had been thinking of him too. She believed the Human phrase was, "speak of the devil. . ."

"Grandmother?"

He was getting closer. She straightened up, swiftly exiting the rectangle of white sand.

" _Ko'mekh-il_?" He rounded a corner and nearly ran into her.

How tall he was becoming. This year, they were of a height.

" _Ko'mekh-il_ , I. . ."

She held up a hand, "Stop," she said, using Standard, as was her custom with him, "You may speak, but at the same time you will show me you remember what you have learned." She handed him her clippers, and directed him to a small circle of succulents, pointing to several that needed attention. He gave one curt nod and began.

He broke the hard, dry, dead leaves of the succulents off of the plants, putting them slowly into her workbasket, and his story of T'Pring and shared dreams and unexpected. . . _feelings_. . . emerged from him just as reluctantly.

"I was dreaming, but it was no dream, Grandmother."

She nodded.

He grimaced slightly, "I cannot help but conclude that I have been. . . _used_. Used like a. . . a. . . " he growled a Klingon word he _certainly_ should not have known, "And all without any warning. Or consent."

"You have saved a life, Spokh," she said, "It should take very little for you to consent to such an action."

He paused, considering.

"And how much warning would you have given me if she had been a _V'tosh ka'tur_ or already _riyeht-kashik_? I deserved to be aware from the beginning what might be expected of me. . . in. . . _that_ matter. . ." He was reluctant to speak the words, as well he ought to be.

"The. . . _needs_ of your _ko-kugalsu_ that you describe, they are rare, _sa-fu-al_. A warning was not necessary."

"Did not Surak say, " _Ranau ra-gish kaing ri-gishu_ "? He broke the last dried overbloom from the flowering succulent he had been working on, and moved on to the next plant, "Did I not warrant a chance to prepare?"

"You did," she said sternly, "You had ten years."

He stopped trimming the circle of plants, setting the hand clippers carefully off to the side.

"I am not fully Vulcan, _Than-Tha_ ," he said, so quietly she had to lean forward to hear him, "I have chosen our way of life, but I could not choose what I _am_." He turned to her, imploring, with Amanda's eyes and Sarek's mouth, "I cannot continue in this bond, _Ko'mekh-il._ After such a Time as last night, her bond should call to me. It does not. Indeed, it never has." He stood up, frustrated with himself, "Whose fault that is should not interest me, you are right, but. . . _Than-Tha_. . ."

That was twice he had called her Meld Teacher. Perhaps it was time. . .

She raised her hand and silently asked for permission, which, quite frankly, she did not expect him to give.

He paused a long time, looking at her hand and not at her.

Then, with a very Human sigh, he nodded, and closed his eyes.

His personality was stronger than ever. Like the sun at midday in his brightness, but focused, controlled, like a beam through a prism, and just as colorful. She had touched his mind fully only once before, and this time, like that one, she, even T'Pau herself, felt dazzled.

 _Ko'mekh-il. . ._ For a moment his mind wavered and shrank before her. _Have I offended you?_

It was a sacrilege to see her grandson's iridescence reduced by fear.

 _No Spokh._ She said it steadily. _I had merely forgotten how striking you are._

His mind fumbled for words, but only managed to project an image of his eyes, six years old, looking at her with a very Human expression of crushed despair.

His memory of the last time she had touched his mind.

Her heart sank within her.

_I was wrong._

The words did not stick in her mind as she had feared they would. She said them clearly and openly.

_Wrong?_

_Yes. Wrong to let you think you fared so poorly in my eyes._

Then she showed him how surprised she had been at him - not at his failure, but at his strength, his beauty, his life. His. . . _unexpected_ life.

 _I never thought one such as you would ever exist, sa-fu-al_.

_Then I am. . . unique?_

_Yes._

His mind shrugged, as though this was just a bad as he had thought.

_Child, you are not incapable of belonging._

_That I doubt._

_Show me why._

There was a great crimson-scented whirl of images from him - not just of bullies and beatings and strange epithets and insults - but also of the quiet times, when he only felt at home when he was alone, and neither his mother nor his father mattered as much as a cheap novel that could take him out of himself for a while, or the moments when he stood in the middle of a crowd of people, and did not seem to be of them, instead feeling like he was looking at them all from the wrong end of a telescope.

_I will always be an alien, Ko'mekh-il. No matter who I am with, or where I am. I have no place._

The measured drumbeats of her own mind quietened for a moment as a choice was suddenly laid in front of her, then they strengthened as she made that choice, assured that it was the right one.

_I once knew a woman who felt as you do, my grandson. She was certain she would never find her place in this universe, never belong to or with anyone, and never, never find peace. She even contemplated going to Gol, but she was never of that type, and knew it would not suit her in the least. And then a great opportunity came to her, which would have meant fame, and honor, and tremendous trust placed in her, but it also would have meant leaving her home, her family. . . all her bonds would have been stretched to their limits. She would have been even more alone than before._

_And so she turned down that great opportunity, and poured herself into her family, making them a greater honor than any outsider could ever bestow._

It was many seconds before it dawned on him that she had just shared with him a secret she had shared with no one - not even Skon had known why she had refused the invitation to the Federation Council.

_She did not find her place, she made her own place._

The colored light of his mind skittered and twisted as he listened.

_And that was enough. Or it was until a young Human woman came and showed her what she had been missing. The day this Human came into her life, she opened up this woman's universe. All of a sudden, where the world had been dull and lonesome, it was bright and clean, full, and unexpected._

She showed him just how greatly both his and Amanda's presence had enriched the familial bond.

_She knows now that life is not about honor, or opportunities, or a family name. It is about being content. In your own place._

She showed him how she saw him, reflecting the colored light of his _katra_ back to him, and all around, lighting up the meld.

_The universe is vast, Spokh. Your life is long. You will find your place, or make it. It is assured._

He said nothing. But he opened his eyes.

She gently broke the meld.

He inhaled softly, "Fascinating."

Her eyes glittered. "Indeed."

 _"Ko'mekh-il_ ," he said, slowly, "I. . . I have been. . . afraid of you. . . for far too long." He bent and picked up her hand-clippers, giving them back to her, "I was also wrong."

She took the clippers, letting her eyebrows twitch a little, "Surak also says - "It is in the time of one's youth that mistakes are the easiest mended."

"Yes."

His voice was determined, and a little sad.

"I believe I will try. . . a proactive approach to T'Pring," he looked at her for approval.

"Continue," was all she said.

"We cannot undo ten years of. . . silence. . . but we can each be what the other needs _now_. Or at least, I can."

"That is all one can change, _Spokh-kam_."

He blinked. She only very rarely used any terms of endearment.

"May I have access to the clan's _kal'i'farr_ caves once every two seasons?"

She nodded slowly, "That is an acceptable idea."

"She may need me again. And proximity is. . . sometimes ideal. . . for the growth of. . . of. . . _affection_."

"It will be done, _sa-fu-al_."

Still he stood there, his posture unrelentingly straight and uncomfortable.

"Now, Spokh," she admonished, "Stop pestering a tired old woman and bring her some tea." Her voice was hard, and it took him a moment before he saw the gleam in her eyes.

He blinked, and finally held himself with greater ease.

"Yes, Grandmother," he said, and left.

When he returned with the tea, they sat and drank it together.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Naric_ \- Vulcan pomegranates, or the tree/shrub that produces them

 _Glat-kov_ \- Sign-stone; a landmark used to mark the boundaries of a person's or clan's property

 _Yon-savas_ \- Literally "fire fruit"; a strongly flavored yellow to red-colored vegetable; Vulcan chili peppers

 _Mevak_ \- A hollow-stemmed reed-like plant, used in Vulcan wickerwork

 _Plomeek_ \- A type of root vegetable from the Nightshade family; often made into a soup

 _Ic'tan_ \- Coniferous tree, related to pine or fir

 _Sher'khah_ \- The tallest tree species on Vulcan. Its wood is the straightest grained wood available on-planet. It is often used in the construction of ka'athyras.

 _Induka_ \- A tree with red leaves found near an oasis and water

 _Spokh_ \- Name of an ancient relative/companion of Surak, meaning "Bringer of Peace"; proper phonetic spelling of "Spock".

 _Ko-kugalsu_ \- Fiancee; A woman to whom a man is engaged to be married

 _Tir-nuk_ \- A small succulent tree, much like an Earth ajuga; often found in the desert

 _Ko'mekh-il_ \- Grandmother; the mother of one's father or mother

 _ **Sa-fu-al**_ \- Grandson; the male child of one's children; a male descendant

 _V'tosh ka'tur_ \- Literally "Vulcans without logic". They do not reject Surak's teachings, but disagree with the elders about how they should be interpreted.

 _Riyeht-kashik_ \- Insane; not-right-minded; mentally unstable

 _ **Ranau ra-gish kaing ri-gishu**_ \- "Prepare for what is expected equally with what is unexpected." (Analect of Surak)

 _-kam_ \- Denotes affection

 _Kal'i'farr_ \- Marriage; the legal union of a man and woman as husband and wife; the state of being married; wedlock

 ***Cultural Note -** On Vulcan, it is traditional for guests to cook at least one meal for their hosts. Especially on important occasions, only the designated chefs or the guests may cook the meals. For Amanda to have insisted upon doing any cooking on a day she herself had declared important would have branded her a guest, not a member of the family.


	7. Chapter Six

**Warning** \- This chapter earns its T rating, folks. If you're very young, or very easily triggered, please go read something else.

* * *

_"Don't try to be a great man, just be a man. And let history make its own judgments"_

_\- Zefram Cochrane_

* * *

_"What is necessary for your mate is necessary for you."_

_\- Analect of Surak_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_Logic is often difficult. It is this that makes it worth doing._

For the thirty-second time in the past four hours, Sarek repressed a sigh.

_To experience our emotions is natural._

The Orion Trade Ambassador had been squabbling over irrelevant minutia in the wording of the trade agreement for over three of those hours. Sarek was not surprised at this - offering loud complaints at a thing that was entirely acceptable was the Orion way of being respectful - but, in this instance, there was only so much. . . _politeness_. . . he felt inclined to take.

_To acknowledge our emotions is commendable._

It was taking all of Sarek's diplomatic training, Vulcan calm, and his mental connection with Amanda to keep from using a _to'tsu'k'hy_ on the Ambassador, dropping him harmlessly to the floor, and _closing his mouth_.

_To express our emotions is illogical._

If he did so, however, the Orion government would no doubt feel it necessary to send a new Ambassador to re-negotiate, and the trade agreement would not be completed in time for his next offworld assignment.

_To control our emotions is essential._

In Sarek's mind, when it came to maintaining a calm, logical outlook, it was the Ambassadors who had the most difficult time of anyone, anywhere.

_The most assured things in the universe are death, diversity, and stupidity._

The Trade Ambassador was now complaining very loudly that the last paragraph of the agreement had fourteen more words in it than the opening paragraph, and apparently the number fourteen held some. . . _insulting_. . . significance in Orion culture.

_Diversity is desirable._

Orion _hektan_ spice, while a strong euphoric to Orions, and a deadly psychotropic to Humans, was a useful anticoagulant to Vulcans, and considering the _extreme_ unlikelihood of the Federation making the substance generally legal, it made great sense for Vulcan to be the main trade partner with Orion when it came to the drug.

_Individuality is not a crime._

This did not mean Sarek had to like negotiating for it, or with _this_ Trade Ambassador specifically.

_As far as depends on you, live peaceably with all._

Even quoting the analects of Surak to himself was losing its efficacy.

He deftly interrupted and once again reminded the man that any trade agreement, no matter how poorly worded, that assured his planet exclusive rights to trade a highly restricted substance for Vulcan brandy, wine, _k'vass_ , beer, and several other specialty items, was a privilege only rarely extended to any planet or peoples.

At last, the copper-patina-green skinned gentleman decided he had complained enough, and spat on the floor, signalling the end of negotiations.

Sarek, ignoring his office's sanitation needs for the moment, offered the other man a fingerprint scanner, then quickly attached both his own and the other man's identifying marks on the document, and logged the agreement as complete.

_All things have their end._

The Orion even had the audacity to make the _ta'al_ as he left.

After he had gone, Sarek called for a cleaning team, closed his eyes, and allowed himself a sigh of relief.

It never ceased to amaze him that Orion had developed such a. . . one might delicately call it a _unique_ sense of propriety, that even their trained diplomats could very nearly manage to upset a Vulcan.

_Are you better now, my dear?_

Amanda had been listening in on the last two hours of his ordeal, allowing him to use her Human sense of humor to help him endure the Orion's extreme illogic.

 _I believe so,_ adun'a _._

_Good._

Her mind sparkled through his _katra_ , like that festive drink he was sometimes obliged to partake in. . . what was it?

_Champagne, love._

Ah yes.

_Now, hurry home for dinner, dear, I've made your favorite._

_Amanda, I do not have favorites._

She huffed, even in her mind, _Fine. I have made your_ _ **most preferred**_ _meal of spicy fried_ de-th'ek _with my homemade_ vash g'ralth _salad._ She grinned triumphantly at him through the bond. _There's even a_ pla-savas _tart for dessert._

Sarek found himself amused at how she would use the Vulcan words when speaking mentally to him, but the instinctive words and images in her own mind were still "falafel", "piccalilli", and "blueberry pie".

_So sue me, I'm still Human._

_To take you to court over a part of your mentality that is not only entirely harmless, but that I also find greatly acceptable, would be the height of illogic,_ ashal-veh.

_Just come_ _**home** _ _._

Her thoughts were very insistent, and Sarek found he was entirely unwilling to disobey.

He sent her a feeling of _agreement_ , but no more words, and she retreated back down the bond somewhat, allowing him to focus on his surroundings.

The cleaning team had finished some minutes ago. He removed his outer robes, hanging them up in the small dressing-closet in his office, and putting on his riding leathers and safety helmet. Almost immediately he pulled off the helmet - it irritated his ears. He would take extra care while flying, but today he _could not_ endure any more irritation.

Then he walked speedily down to the Embassy's garage and retrieved his hoverbike, not acknowledging his aides as he left the office, or even paying the smallest attention to the garage attendant.

He spared a moment to look down the bond he shared with Amanda, making sure she was still there, waiting for him.

Waiting _only_ for him. . .

His Time was coming. They both knew it. His need for an increasing amount of emotional support showed it, as did his unusual dislike of males anywhere within sight of Amanda, and his insistence that she remain constantly close to him through the bond. The only question was when. . . and it could be anytime now. Perhaps weeks, but more likely days, and even, perhaps, hours. This uncertainty, the disorder of not knowing, was the most difficult part.

For anything else, he could wait patiently. For this, the waiting was almost worse than the reality.

Almost.

As he began to pilot the hoverbike homeward, his thoughts turned, inexplicably, to Spock.

While Amanda had been in labor, she had peremptorily sent him away, for she said his pacing and constant worry got on her nerves. Sarek had not contradicted her, but left only reluctantly, and to this day could not remember where he had gone. Once all was safely over, he felt the familial bond thrum with a new life, and Amanda called to him as insistently as she had sent him away.

That day, as he had watched her gently open the points of the child's still-furled ears, he had felt two things - an increased thankfulness and respect of his wife, and an immense, unstoppable, frightening, _storm_ of love for his son. He had never experienced anything like it, before or since, and he was still, nearly twenty years later, attempting to make sense of even the shallowest of those feelings.

What was frustrating, or rather baffling, was that Amanda had instinctively understood the whole vortex of those emotions, and seemingly had no difficulty making room in her own mind for them, and communicating their presence to Spock, refracting and bending the turmoil of such huge feelings into something livable, breathable, and feeding them to their son with all the wisdom of motherhood.

For Amanda, this storm of feeling was such a dynamic experience, while all Sarek could do was statically wonder and watch. True, she did it all in a perfectly Human way, not touching the very depths of being the way a Vulcan could, but that was, in essence, the point. He _could_ , so why didn't he?

With Spock, even more than with Amanda, Sarek realized, he felt a love so deep it defied expression, shattered even acknowledgement, and, most importantly, frightened Sarek to his marrow.

To touch that feeling - to live in it, to feel it thoroughly. . . it would either give him immortality or make him instantly insane. Was this feeling a God? Or a Devil? He didn't know, and could not experiment, leaving Spock in the unlikely position of having to be the instigator of the parent-child bond.

This great, eternal feeling had left Sarek helpless, and Spock in a most difficult state of flux.

Spock, of course, knew none of this, could not, and lived apart from him, independent in mind and spirit, not starved of Sarek's attention, but in all ways his own person, never reaching towards his father, from fear or indifference Sarek was never sure.

Amanda said it was neither - his son merely knew some things like a Human would, and so, he _knew_ his father did not desire _kash-nov_ or a bond beyond the familial level with him.

It did not matter how many times he told his wife this was illogical, she would only state that Humans _were_ illogical, that they _needed_ to be, and that _some_ aspects of Vulcan social mores were _stupid_.

He had given up arguing with her, seeing that she was right.

_. . . Possibly. . ._

If Spock had grown up unsure of his father's regard, then it was no more the fault of his son's part-Human understanding than it was his half-Vulcan soul.

And, naturally, Sarek's own full-Vulcan, highly repressed but deeply, intensely, entirely, _infuriatingly_ emotional landscape wasn't helping either. Amanda _knew_ that.

He gripped the steering controls tighter as he neared the border of S'chn T'gai lands.

He had not had this trouble with Sybok and T'Rea. The former High Priestess of Gol had not been _able_ to love him, or their son, and thus had not inspired love in return. When Sybok had come to him, only one year old, his mental control had been that of an adolescent, demanding nothing from his father, inspiring only great respect, and very little paternal reciprocity.

He had loved Sybok, and still did as a Vulcan can love, but there was never that huge, inexplicable adoration he had for Spock.

Sarek often wondered what would have happened to his firstborn if T'Rea had lived.

But she had died suddenly, quickly, senselessly, just when Sybok had reached an age to be able to remember her, and as he had grown up he had been unable to reconcile the illogic of it, and had eventually disappeared into the Vulcan netherworld of the _V'tosh ka'tur._

Fourteen years ago, finally, Sarek had been obliged to disown his very flesh and blood. He would _not_ have that happen again. Spock would have every Vulcan advantage, would be allowed to see all that logic and experience could teach, would be instilled with the contentment of peace.

Spock would be a Vulcan _with_ logic - he would not be thrown out of society, or named unworthy of his family's titles.

His son would see reason, eventually. He _would_ reach to him, one day, and in this, like in most things, Sarek was content to wait.

In the meantime, there was Amanda. He closed himself off, for the time being, from all emotional concerns and imbalances, focusing rather on the prospect of a very well cooked meal after a long and trying day.

He skillfully set down the hoverbike on the large landing pad outside the stone walls of their large estate. He dismounted swiftly, striding with purpose through the gates of his home. The attendants would care for his vehicle.

Amanda was inside, and he imagined he could smell the hot _de-th'ek_ from here.

* * *

As she set the table, Amanda contemplated her husband. She had separated herself only slightly from his consciousness; she could still feel his thoughts, and they were far more tumultuous thoughts than usual.

She put a jug of cooled spice-tea in the center of the table, and a covered dish on each corner.

He was thinking of her. . . _And Spock_. . . with much greater regularity these days. His emotional state had gone from ubiquitous calm to a jagged-edged tolerance. For the past week, she dared not even give cordial greetings to the gardener, or to any of Sarek's aides that happened to see her when they visited him at home. He had been _impatient_ with Spock for the last three days.

She knew, of course, what these things foreboded, and for the first time, Spock was old enough to know too. She was thankful for her son's bond with T'Pring for this at least; any son who spent time with his intended at the clan's _kal'i'farr_ caves every two seasons, did not have to have his father's coming indignity hidden from him any more. She spared a moment . . . _And more than just a moment_. . . wondering what, exactly, Spock and T'Pring. . .

But no. She firmly told herself that there were things a mother did not need to know.

Dinner was completely ready, so she took a quick minute to stow some fresh bread and fruit down in the special cellar room she and Sarek only used once every seven years.

It would be the third time she had occasion to prepare it, their first Time, of course, having been in the clan's _kal'i'farr_ caves some thirty kilometers away. After that time, she had suggested a discreet place of their own, away from clan notice - and away from tradition, for that matter. She had argued that Sarek could afford a private underground room - every Vulcan home of any size at all had a cellar anyway - and if they designed the room themselves, they would certainly be more comfortable than they had been in an unfinished, albeit well appointed, natural cave.

She had not convinced Sarek until she had made a plea for her safety. _Then_ he had relented, swiftly, backing the project so intently that it was nearly impossible to tell he had ever resisted it.

It was just as well, she thought, that Sarek would be sequestered down here soon, as Spock had told her he was probably going to need the caves himself within a few days, and Sarek never liked it when Spock disappeared for any reason, but when _this_ was the reason, Sarek was most inconsistently upset.

She opened the door and confidently ordered the lights on. A small sun-chimney skylight provided soft lighting for the main room, but the refresher unit where she was headed had an artificial light in it. She walked past the only thing in the main room - a bed. _It_ at least was traditional - a huge rounded cushion affair, with many pillows arranged upon it. She smiled, remembering Sarek's sheepish look when he had been obliged to re-purchase most of those pillows. His last Time had got a bit. . . destructive. She had been doubly glad they were here, and not in a room made of stone. Here there was literally nothing you could fall against. . . or be thrown against. . . that would crack your head open. All the walls and the floor were softened with heavy padding covered with a tear-proof, stain-proof canvas, and the refresher unit had no door. It had no pointed corners or hard surfaces either - the tub, toilet and sink were all rounded things, all made of cushioned vinyl, with the water spouts recessed into their inner surfaces. The shower-head was flush against the ceiling. The refrigeration unit was sunk into one wall, a small cupboard-like affair, with a padded door.

She had put a dozen water bottles in it when she had aired and dusted the room two days ago, in anticipation, but had not yet stocked it with fresh food.

She felt ripples through the bond as he sensed she was _in this room_. He had just landed outside their home. At the moment, he just wanted her cooking, but soon. . .

Quickly, she put the fruit and bread in the stasis unit, and swept upstairs.

Spock was waiting for her near the dinner table, a PADD in his hand.

"For you, Professor," he said, lightly, bowing to her.

She laughed and took his latest essay, kissing him lightly on the top of his head. Kisses on his hair were one of her greatest discoveries. There was no skin contact, so she would not be disturbing him telepathically, and she still got to use the Human caress.

"So, what is this one about, boy-of-mine?"

"The effects of interstellar radiation on warp drive efficiency."

"Hmm. I make no promises on the technical jargon. . ."

"That will not be necessary," his eyes relaxed into the expression she knew meant he was placidly happy, "But who else can say they have had all their published essays personally edited by the the first Human woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature since Ayla Kahwaji?"

"No one else, _sa-fu_."

"And not many Vulcans have the benefit of Human intuition, either," said Sarek, entering the room suddenly, "I am going to wash before end-meal." He left - just as suddenly.

She saw Spock hold back a sigh. It was unlikely that anyone outside the three of them would have been able to discern the sarcasm in Sarek's words, but Spock and he had been having a weeks-long discussion concerning the benefits and disadvantages of pure facts in instructional literature, versus imaginative generalization. Spock, unsurprisingly, was making a very adept case for imagination, while Sarek uncompromisingly stood for facts, and facts alone.

It would have been an excellent, encouraging thing for her to witness, except that, as usual, Sarek had pushed the issue to the point that Spock could hardly say _anything_ without his father assuming he was speaking of their debate.

She smiled at her son, and tapped the PADD. "Sit down, Spock- _kam_ , and I'll take a quick look at this before he gets back."

She sat down at the dinner table herself, skimming and marking his work, typing short comments here and there, all the while thinking of her two men, so different, and yet so the same. . .

It did not mystify her why Sarek dealt so hardly with their son, and also, paradoxically, thought about him with such intensity and regularity. She had, after all, practically raised Sybok as well, and it had hurt her just as much as it had hurt Sarek when his eldest had left peaceful civilization for the uncertainty and danger of the lawless _V'tosh ka'tur_. As much as Sarek had blamed himself, she too had felt she had failed. Sybok had needed love, and a lot of it after a Reldai-ruled babyhood, and she had never felt confident that she had given her utmost to the boy. But she had tried. Sarek, she knew, felt that he had not even done that much.

For her, Spock was, to put it simply, _another_ son. But for Sarek, he was a chance for redemption. Spock was his second chance - he intended to do everything perfectly by the book this time. And there was no-one like a Vulcan when it came to doing things by the book.

And as for Spock, well. . . it was never easy to obtain a second chance, but - and didn't she know it! - it was even more harrowing to _be_ a second chance.

Sarek had never called T'Rea his wife, never thought of her that way, but Amanda knew that she herself was also his second chance, not to mention his savior - and in a far more concrete way than Spock would ever be to his father.

_Thank heavens._

But it seemed to _hurt_ Sarek to let Spock simply be his own person. Sometimes she _did_ wonder why her husband had never initiated a mind-meld with their son. It _was_ the logical thing to do - or at least suggest.

She thought Spock usually handled the situation with a grace and dignity that reminded her, not of Sarek or herself, but oddly of T'Pau.

_This boy is a prince. Just like his father. . ._

_I am not a prince, Amanda._

Sarek re-entered the dining room just then, sat down without a word, and started to eat his dinner.

_You are_ _**my** _ _Alien Prince._

_That is an illogical nickname_ , ashayam.

She smiled demurely, serving Spock some _vash g'ralth_.

_And_ _**that** _ _is a tautology, husband. Nicknames are illogical by definition._

He sighed through the bond, _Why did I choose to marry an English professor?_

_Because it's practically the same as being a Vulcan Ambassador - we're intelligent, precise, well respected, and our job demands that we know how to read past meandering bullshit._

Sarek almost dropped his fork.

_Not to mention you are diplomatic._

The sarcasm in his mental voice was entirely delicious.

_That's right. No one_ _**ever** _ _mentions an English professor's diplomacy._

_Indeed._

Oh, his Time was close. He was _grinning_ at her through the bond. For a few minutes she calculated how much food she still needed to put down in the cellar room, but stopped when Sarek caught her at it, and _growled_ mentally at her. He did not like to be reminded of that place - or rather, he liked it _too much_.

She went back to editing Spock's article while she ate, observing silence during the meal as tradition demanded, but insisting on _some_ form of entertainment beyond the food. He was getting much better at prose, too - she even understood a good amount of his discourse on warp coolant formulae - which was very good, since just a year ago he could barely keep her attention even when he wrote about something she understood well, like vegetable gardening, or the sentence structure employed in Federation Standard, or the peccadilloes of Vulcan males. . .

That last thought had not come from her. Sarek was poking her through the bond, and laughing. . . laughing _out loud_. . .

Spock looked up just as she did, startled at the unfamiliar sound coming from his father.

" _Sa-mekh_ ," he said, slowly, "I meant to tell you before end-meal, but I must tell you now."

Sarek sobered at once, and she felt him clamp down on what remained of his control, "Yes?"

"I will be gone for at least five days this week. . ."

"No!" Sarek cut him off, "Always you are leaving here, disappearing to who knows where! It must stop, it will stop. NO!" He picked up his still full glass and threw it, not at Spock, but against the stone tile floor where it shattered impressively.

Amanda looked at her son, reaching through her bond with him, and he read her eyes and understood.

Spock picked up the PADD with his article in it and left the room, not looking back.

Sarek watched him go and then smashed a plate in rampant frustration.

She sat there, with the uncertainty of beginnings upon her. His onset was always difficult, for he each time he was triggered by something different. She was unsure, at this exact moment, precisely what she needed to do.

He drove a fork so violently into the surface of the table it remained standing there, a testament to Vulcan strength.

This was _plak-tau_. You had to play dirty, or you didn't play at all. She stood, concentrated her will on him, and thought about her high school crush. Thought _hard_.

_He was tall, handsome and_ _**Human** _ _, Sarek. . ._

He paused in his destruction of the tableware, his posture suddenly that of a predator who has scented his prey.

 _He had_ _ **blond**_ _hair. . . it curled over his_ _ **round**_ _ears. He was gorgeous,_ adun _._

The mostly empty jug of tea flew across the room, and exploded into a million ironblood-red shards of ceramic.

Then, he whirled, and stalked over to her, wrapping his fingers around her chin, compelling her to look at him.

"You. . ." his voice caught, "Will _not_ think of him. . ."

She met his eyes defiantly.

_What are you going to do about it, husband?_

He dragged her mouth to his for a soul-melting kiss, running one hand down the length of her body in such a way that her mind blanked entirely. When he pulled back, she was dizzy, and quite speechless.

_**That** _ _is what I am going to do, wife._

He moved towards her again, one hand coming up to begin a meld, but she quickly pushed him away.

"Go downstairs, Sarek."

His face crumpled, like a kicked puppy. "Amanda. . ." he breathed, "You. . . why?"

She put her foot down, "Sarek. Go. Downstairs." She pointed to the cellar door, "I'll be there in _one_ minute, I promise."

He came to himself, briefly, and looked around, clearly appalled at the mess, not to mention his own mental disarray. He looked at his hands, "Yes. Yes, of course, I. . . I apologize, Amanda, I. . ." his eyes began streaming with tears he could not stop, and with a choking sob of disgust, he almost ran to the cellar door, not looking back once.

As soon as the door was closed, she sprinted to their room, pulling off her heavy everyday robes as she went. Then she swiftly pulled on a nightgown, and messaged the servants to clean up the dining room and then leave the house. She also sent out a prearranged message cancelling all his appointments for a week, and one final message, to T'Pau, consisting of one single sentence - "It is Time." She would understand, and would take care of any loose ends that cropped up.

Amanda was out of time. The bond had been _wailing_ at her for the last five minutes.

 _You said_ _ **one**_ _minute,_ ashayam _._ _ **One**_ _minute. . ._

_I'm coming. . ._

_You_ _**promised** _ _. . ._

His mind trailed off into a quickly disintegrating stream of nonsense.

She went back through the kitchen, filling her arms with whatever food she could grab. Then she darted downstairs, getting out of sight just in time before the servants arrived and saw her, or Sarek noticed them through her bond. Two of them were male, and if he sensed them near her, he _would_ try to kill them.

_I'm coming, love. . ._

_No. . . no, do not come. . ._

_Sarek. . ._

_You are right to abandon me,_ ashal-veh. _I am a wretch. Do not come near me._

She sighed, vexed, and walked through the cellar-room door, voice-locking it behind her. It would not open again until she ordered it to.

She saw him then, curled up against one corner of the bed, crying into one of the pillows

Quickly, she went to the refresher room, and dumped the food she was carrying into the stasis unit.

Then she walked slowly over to him, stood in front of his pathetic, grovelling form, and reached out to stroke his hair.

As soon as she touched him, he bounded forward and clasped her around her knees.

 _Stay, please stay, my darling wife. . . I . . ._ He nuzzled against her legs, _How,_ _how_ _can you want me, how can you stand the sight of me?_ He cried out as if in pain, and crawled away from her. _Go! I am unforgivable. . ._

He always started off like this. He would work himself into such a state, he'd get convinced she was leaving him. He would spend hours weeping, ordering her to leave, leave and let him die, begging her to stay, stay and forgive him.

She wondered sometimes if he had been like this with T'Rea, or if he only reacted to her like this because he remembered the first time she had tried to save him.

He _had_ tried to explain his Time to her before they married. He was nowhere near socially inept enough to expect her to marry him before she knew _exactly_ what she was letting herself in for. But even though a meld, his imagery was uniquely Vulcan, and she had barely been able to understand him. The closest he had ever come to describing it in a way she comprehended had been that he would experience an overflow, an explosion of _self_ that would not, could not be controlled or denied. His emotions would shake free of their moorings, and pour from him, into her. He would be like a geyser, boiling and dangerous. The only way for her to keep her mind safe would be to retreat, take her ego and run, as it were, and hide in the depths of her own mind until it was all over. Apparently Vulcan women did this naturally, but the only image she could clearly see from him was that her mind must become like a dry well, deep and open, or he would overwhelm her, body and soul, damage her, even _kill_ her. He did _not_ want that - that was very clear - but it was about the only thing that was.

Still, they had tried it that way - and the first day of his first Time with her he had nearly scrambled her brain into jelly.

She did _not_ like remembering that day. . .

Then, while he had wept in despair, huddling in a corner and refusing to touch her lest he hurt her more, she had had an idea. It had been a faint idea, fuzzy, and just barely doable, but instead of trying to make her mind stay solid and run away, she formed her mind into an open mesh, and stood her ground. Even now it sounded odd to her, and she had never tried to explain it to anyone, not even T'Pau. She'd had to try three times before she felt competent enough to go to him, but it had worked. When she finally convinced him to meld with her again, she became a sieve, letting the flood of him pass _through_ her, harmlessly, to dissipate into the ether of memory. He had laughed with the pure joy of relief, both sorrowful and delighted tears mingling on his face, his mind flowing into hers, her mind catching only the necessary fragments of the fleeting, gemlike images that were what he was thinking, what he needed, what he _wanted_.

Ever since, she had always been able to satisfy him, whether it was his Time or not.

She knelt on the floor with him now, pulling one of his hands to her face, kissing his palm, nibbling lightly on his fingertips, then pushing his fingers towards the places on her cheek that would make their minds into one.

He subtly adjusted his fingers, and with a shout he gave her all his shame, all his guilt, every bit of his fear and sorrow. For a brief moment it was more than even her Catholic father and Jewish mother combined would ever have believed _any_ one person could feel, and then her mind became a wide sheet of steel gossamer, letting him through, but not bending, not retreating, only steadfastly taking what he needed to give her, and catching several shards of his thoughts so she could respond, do what he needed, and save his life.

At this moment, he desperately wanted her to kiss him.

So she did.

* * *

Spock left his parents at the dinner table that evening, knowing from the look in his mother's eyes that he would be _expected_ to leave the house now, that his father would probably not remember his outburst, and that Spock's absence from home and presence at the _kal'i'farr_ caves would for once, mercifully, not be commented on.

A change of clothes, and a donning of his survival pack and a riding helmet later, he was speeding across the desert, his black hoverbike gleaming in the long rays of the late-afternoon sun.

T'Pring had messaged him two days ago, curtly stating that she would be at the caves on this day, at evening. She would stay there for three to five days. That was all the message had said.

She did not ask him to come to her, did not ask him to bring anything or to prepare for anything beyond their normal meditation sessions together.

At the moment, he was unsure if this encouraged him or made him apprehensive.

They had been meeting at his family's _kal'i'farr_ caves for nearly three years now - this would be their fifth time. . . well, her _sixth_ Time. . .

The first three instances they had met had come at irregular intervals, her cycle needing to adjust to the new geographical and hormonal cues found at her father's estate. Distancing herself from Gol had clearly been a difficult choice for her, with difficult consequences.

Each of those times he had sat next to her, body and soul, discovering that pushing his mind between her and the dangerous wall of her _katra_ when she moved too deep in her meditation, and performing the _ozh-esta_ when she needed it, was quite enough to keep her sane though the meditations that satisfied her Time. But every time she had accepted his presence and attentions, she seemed. . . to indefinably _change_.

The first three times had been exploratory, irregular, non-representative of her true nature, nor of his, he supposed, for the last time they had met, their fourth time in the caves, she had demanded a full meld, not just the touch of skin through the finger-embrace. At the first light touch of his mind, she had pulled his thoughts into hers, showing him the cavern her mind became while she was in this state, asking, _pleading_ that he fill the space with his own mind, that he ease the loneliness, the despair, the heartache she did not understand. . .

He had attempted to do so, with some measure of success, but when he had broken the meld, they were on the floor, her asleep against him, all their arms and legs entwined. . .

It had disturbed him, because he could not remember moving into that position.

When she had awoken she had not mentioned it. But from that day, something had _certainly_ changed.

He would have liked to ask, but the bond never called to him. _She_ never called to him, save twice a year, when all she said was the barest of logical things, like he was a _kafeh_ , or mere tool, his goings and comings beneath her notice. Neither his own needs, nor his ingrained respect would allow him to break the barrier between them.

_My fear will not let me do so either._

She had built the wall of separation. She would have to be the one to tear it down.

He flew through the standing stones that marked the entrance to the _spathel_ called _Gu-vah-baet_. It reminded him of the ancient city of Petra he and his mother had gone to see the last time his father had been stationed on Earth.

The red stones, the formality.

_The mystery._

He reached out empathically, feeling the warm living rock, the cool spots of life that were the sparse plants that lived out here, and _there_ , one smooth, cold, darkly burnished obsidian stone, waiting inside the caves for him.

Her mood was very black, the skin of her mind shiveringly cold, yet he felt sure, somehow, that it was all in protection of one place upon her soul that, if touched, would shatter her into glittering shards of glass.

He landed his hoverbike, and took off his helmet, but paused before entering the caves.

_This is nothing but plak-tauw. You have seen it before._

It was natural, and regular. They had learned how to deal with it. They _would_ deal with it, as they had done before.

No, he was not nervous in the least.

Not at all.

* * *

T'Pring had packed her small bag with a conviction born of long experience.

_It has only been three years._

But it was a great deal more experience than she had been afforded that first Time.

_He is no longer a child with no idea what to do._

Still, a hard stone of uncertainty had settled in her belly. She had, for several Times now, felt an _escalation_. She was uncertain what it meant, or if his proximity during her Times had anything to do with it.

She shouldered her bag and began to walk the many kilometers to his family's caves. She had read in some ancient text that exercise beforehand could lessen the effect of the Fever. It was an old tale, told now only by the oldest and most superstitious among Vulcans, but it was a simple thing to try, and she was willing to try nearly anything. It would take her hours, but the sun was just up, and she had arranged to meet him that evening.

The hardest thing was knowing what to say to him.

She doubted highly if their previous routine would be enough this time. But if she changed their routine, he might not come.

Best to be brief, and logical.

And best to shield herself thickly from his warm, enticing otherness. Every time she had tasted the Human in him, she was fascinated. He was so different, she could lose herself in the coruscating colors of him. But every time, when she no longer needed him, the bond would close, and she was either too frightened or too stubborn to force it back open.

Oh, how she wished to _know_ him; how she desired to _understand_ the mind that had lived inside her own for over thirteen years now.

It was highly confusing, wanting someone to want you for yourself, but not being entirely certain that you wanted them in return.

Perhaps. . . perhaps, this Time would join them fully, finally moving the bond nearer to the marriage-places on their _katras_.

She would not. . . object. . . to such a thing. He was interesting, and she needed him.

She could live without _want_.

The path that circled Shi'Kahr was narrow, and thickly laid with sand, but it was smooth, and so constructed as to keep travelers on it walking in the shade for most of the day.

She would have liked to think some more as she walked, but her Time was on her, and her thoughts kept slipping away, down the sinkhole of her mind. Soon, soon now her self would retreat, and only his hand could draw her back.

The day was hotter than usual for the season, but still she shivered, from fear or anticipation she did not know.

She reached the caves in late afternoon, going in to wash herself before he arrived.

_If he arrives. . ._

The caves were very well appointed, a tribute to his ancient name. A natural fountain sprang up in the large alcove allotted for the refresher unit. The light was natural - streaming through some cunningly hidden fissures in the rock.

These caves. . . lived. They thrummed and pulsed with a hundred generations of memories so powerful it nearly became a compulsion to add your own memories to them.

She lit the antique stone-filigree firepot and arranged herself before it, marshaling her sprawling mind into one place within her, compacting her _self_ into a solid thing she could control, or try to, at the least.

It took all the hours she had left before he came, but she managed to construct a shield around herself, hard and cold, so that he might not pierce her heart with his indifference.

She could feel the furnace of her fever pressing against the shield from the inside, but as it was not yet a danger to her, she ignored it.

The flame in the firepot flickered, the hot wind of early evening keening through the cave.

She felt him when he arrived, and clamped down on herself, clawing to control the sudden desperate urge to run to him, begging for his hands, his mouth, his skin to touch her.

 _What are these thoughts? . . . He will give me the_ ozh-esta _, and_ kash-nov _if I ask him._

She quelled her roiling stomach as he sat down next to her.

Slowly, as if in a dream, his fingers wrapped around hers, and his bright, warm mind eased close to the artificial coldness of her own.

Her trance claimed her then, and so she knew not what uncouth hour of the night it was when the heat behind her shield became unbearable, exploding with a force she had never felt before, her mind plummeting away, but her desire. . . oh yes, _that_ was what it was. . . her _need_ became enough for a dozen of her.

"Spokhhhh," she purred, unable to keep the animal lust out of her voice, " _Bat'h'pak!_ I need you. . ."

Before either of them could stop her, she buried her teeth in his neck.

* * *

Spock _had_ thought the first night was going well. . .

He had sat down in front of the one _asenoi_ , sharing it with her as they would soon share their meditations, and he had joined their fingers in the caress of _t'hy'la_. She spoke not a word to him, but the cold hardness of her mind warmed a trifle as his consciousness flowed to sit next to hers.

Their meditation was soothing, the harmony of the caves bringing them to a stable deep trance far quicker than any other place could, and keeping them there much more simply than any other method.

He was not exactly sure of the time when something forced him up from this comfortable rest, but the scent on the air told of night, and the gentle curl of the wind spoke of the sunrise very soon.

Her mind was. . . _moving_. . . the stone of her consciousness was pulling away from his, but she was not breaking, she was _melting_. The protective ice with which she had shielded herself disappeared in an explosion of steam and heat.

Suddenly she needed more than from him than she ever had before, and she marked his neck before plundering his mouth and caressing his hands, stoking the new, unexpected fire inside her.

Before the second day dawned, she demanded he meld with her, her nails bloodying his face and scalp.

He had complied, but was unprepared for the firestorm of her need. This was no mere running away of her consciousness to be easily blocked, it was a funnel of insanity, drawing her down to a blackness from which she would never escape. He was caught up, dizzy, and he lost himself in the whirling vastness of her mind.

When he managed to break the meld, they were no longer wearing clothes, and they were. . . intimately entangled. He had vague memories of. . . he supposed it might be called _kissing_ her, but no memory at all of. . . of. . . _this_.

She clutched at him, biting his shoulders and scratching his arms. He shuddered with a dozen unfamiliar sensations, but it dawned on him that this was necessary. She needed him.

It was not unpleasant to be needed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, plunged back into her mind, and let nature take its course.

* * *

_Amanda. . . Amanda. . . beloved. . . my wife, my woman, my own. . . mine. . ._

Sarek was chanting in her mind, unable, now, to speak aloud.

_Mine. . . only mine. . ._

He growled and claimed her mouth by biting her lip.

It had been three days now. . . _About. . ._ and he was entering his harshest, most frantic, darkest phase. The first day, as usual, he had been all sorrow and contrition, an image of pleading penitence. Yesterday there had been only laughter and playful teasing from him, all frolics and fun. Tomorrow, no doubt, he would be artistic, adventurous, arrogant yet inventive. The day after that he would be loving, and gentle, tender beyond measure. But today - today he was morose, cold, sly. . . predatory. His eyes and mind were hard. Cruel.

The first time she had seen his Time, it was only this stage of it that had almost frightened her enough to leave him.

_Who would have thought that such ruthlessness could live inside his dear Vulcan heart?_

He snapped at her, his teeth clicking dangerously close to her earlobe, while his fingernails made a series of red half-moons in her skin.

Today was the day he would be most ashamed of when his logic returned.

His mind roared at her to return her full attention to him as he was _now_ , for right now, at this moment, there was no shame, no remorse, no history, no future, only now, only _possession_ , in every sense.

 _Yes, my wife. . . I possess you. ._. he turned her over and held the length of her back against him. . . _But I am also possessed by you. . ._

For an instant her mind rebelled.

_**Obsessed with** _ _, more like. . ._

He snarled, clamping her arms to her sides with hot hands like shackles.

_Don't. . . contradict me. . . Professor. . ._

During this stage, she was never sure if he was commanding her to stop resisting, or begging her to resist more.

To be fair, _he_ wasn't sure, either.

One set of his fingers slid to her face.

His blackest, most violent, _evil_ thoughts colored the meld this time, and as he poured his psyche into hers, the sieve she made of her mind only caught a few strands of the full seductive potency of them, but that was enough, and more than enough. . .

_Too much. . ._

His hands gripped her too hard, and his teeth drew blood from her shoulder blade. She screamed into the cushions and blacked out for one horrifyingly beautiful moment.

_Holy hot damn, Sarek, I love you._

He bared his teeth against her neck, hissing menacingly, his thoughts flowing over her like hot wine.

_You had better. . ._

* * *

T'Pring collapsed into his arms, exhausted, falling instantly into a nightmare-ridden sleep that was only half a reprieve for either of them. Still, half freedom was better than the all-consuming, insanely wild, needy melding and. . . other things. . . her fever was constantly demanding from him.

He gently slid her off his body and arranged her carefully on the bed. He lay down beside her, wanting to sleep himself, but truly desiring, in these rare moments when he was almost alone, to _think_.

The past few days had certainly been. . . informative.

He did have a certain amount of confidence now that he had not possessed before - after all, she was still alive, and her _katra_ remained unfractured.

But he could not help sensing that there was something missing.

In her touches there was much _need_ \- an increasingly insistent and desperate clamor for rescue - but there was no _want_.

She burned, but she did not burn _for him_.

As she slept, he felt her mind once more rocketing away, down too deep where she would be lost. Again he pushed his own mind between her and the wall of her _katra_ , keeping her from the insanity which lead to death. Once more her soul reached to his in desperation, once more he dove into the burning red dark of her mind, and once more he broke the meld to find both their bodies entwined.

The days went on, and he found himself both dreading and somehow, perversely, _craving_ the moments when he would lose himself in vortex of her, for she always demanded more, more than either of them thought was possible and yet, here she was, still alive, and whole.

The bite marks upon his skin grew in number, the scratches grew longer and deeper, and her need grew more frantic, more fiery, more insatiable.

Then, it happened that once, and once only, his fingers left a bruise. An ugly green-brown stain on her upper arm.

She did not burn for him, and he had marked her.

Only her insistent need at that moment kept him from howling with shame.

* * *

It was always the last day of the fever that Amanda enjoyed the most. Sarek was gentler, kinder, more doting and caring than he was at _any_ other time, and - she laughed as his roughly textured tongue slid soothingly around places he had bitten - that _really_ took some doing.

He was not yet capable of coherent speech, but his mind asked a question.

_Why are you laughing, Beloved?_

Her eyes gleamed and she laughed again.

_Because, my Husband, you are both predictable, and completely, thoroughly, delightfully unexpected._

His face glowed with a warm smile. He tenderly stroked her face with two fingers then drew her into a kiss so sweet she could not help crying from the joy of it. Then she laughed more as he kissed and lapped all the tears away.

_After all this time, you still think me_ _**unexpected** _ _?_

"Mmm-hmm," she muttered aloud, and thought, _Of course, my dear Alien Prince. . ._

He growled deep in his chest at her old nickname for him, _That name is illo. . . illog. . ._

She grinned and did not help him finish the word, but reached out and began to massage his ears.

The growl became a moan.

 _My sweet, intoxicating wife, I. . . I. . ._ His mind stuttered and flared with want as she continued to caress him. _My love, I burn for you._

_I know._

She drew him closer to her, drew his mind into her own, and made him prove it again.

* * *

When the fever broke, they were both asleep, but when T'Pring awoke, she was alone.

A strange, cold lethargy had invaded her limbs. She did not want to move.

Then her stomach growled, and a knot of pain unfurled beneath it. She sat up, clutching at the nearest torn, stained length of cloth she could reach, and held it to the front of herself. Then the hot flow of blood came. It was almost a relief.

The pain released for a moment, and with a whimper and a groan she lay back down, trying to remember. . . trying to fathom where she was. . .

She slowly lifted her arms and legs - there was no mark upon her. . . wait. . . yes, there was a bruise on her arm. Had she fallen? Had she tripped on the path outside Shi'Kahr on her way to. . . way to. . .? Her head spun, her stomach growled again - she would be hungry as soon as the flow of blood ceased.

Where. . .

No, that was not the most important question. . .

Who. . . ?

Then Spock entered the room, and a few things made sense again. He was carrying a tray of food and a pitcher of water. He was caring for her after her Time, as he always did.

He set it down, and leaned towards her, gently covering the bruise on her arm with his hand. He was warm. . . so warm. . .

"I am sorry, my _ko-kugalsu_ , for this. I had no right." The sorrow, and. . . shame? were very clear in his voice and eyes, "You may have it healed if you wish - I will not insist you bear my mark."

She looked at him, almost entirely uncomprehending.

He either did not notice, or chose not to.

"Will you contact me if. . . if there is a child. . ."

"There is no child."

He nodded, neither relieved nor disappointed. "I was not sure. . ."

"I am."

The sheets beneath her were already stained with green. If he did not see it, he surely ought to be able to _smell_ it.

"Leave me for one hour, and then I will be able to eat."

He nodded again, turned and left.

She realized that it was the first time this stage had happened here. . . on the bed. . .

Then, finally, the memories came flooding back.

She choked on the hot, overwhelming rush of them, then reveled in the relief of knowledge they brought.

But. . .

They shone with Vulcan clarity, but it was like they were under glass, remote, not belonging to her.

She had needed him.

She had demanded he respond.

He had done all as a husband should.

A _husband_.

But after all that, he had not claimed her.

There was only one mark upon her and he had _apologized_ for it.

She was her own woman still, and the bond was closed, no nearer to becoming the marriage bond than it had been a week ago.

She would have the bruise healed immediately.

While she ate the food he had brought, he offered to wash her before he took her back to her father's house, and considering the strange, cold weakness in her limbs, she deemed it unwise to refuse, but she did not look at him while he did it, and did not thank him afterwards.

 _He_ would be the one cleaning the caves tonight, not she. She didn't even own that much of this encounter. Even the _memories_ belonged to him, and she still did not.

She said not a word to him while he flew her home, and did not turn and say goodbye as she went inside.

He flew off, back to the caves, without a reaction.

She had wondered about him, had felt indifferent to him, mildly put off by him, thankful for him, and interested in him, but this was the first time, with all her deep Vulcan soul, she violently hated him.

He was perfect, and he did not want her.

She knew that slamming the door to her room would do little good, but she did it anyway.

* * *

It was tradition for the responding mate to clean the room used for a couple's necessary seclusion.

The first time Amanda had heard of this tradition, she had been indignant at the burdensome sexism, the blatant misogyny, but now, after four experiences, she thought she mostly understood it.

It was, in fact, a respectful gesture more than anything else. It gave the responsive mate (nearly always the woman, of course) a chance to choose which memories she wished to own, and which to disown. If something had happened which she desired to forget, she could destroy the objects which might have reminded her of it, even taking revenge on the room if she felt it necessary. There were places in the _kal'i'farr_ caves that were scarred with high-heat phaser fire, she had seen them. Conversely, if there was something she wished to remember, relics could be preserved. Vulcan women were known to wear small pouches as jewelry - Amanda had often suspected that they held small memorial tokens. A pebble from the cave rooms, perhaps, or a fragment of cloth. Naturally it could not be _said_ what a wife was doing in the room after the necessary time was over, and so, she supposed, a custom had developed to say that the respondent mate was cleaning the place afterwards. And of course, a Vulcan could not _say_ something without it being _true_. After some experience, and a lot of thought, Amanda had decided she approved of a tradition which put a certain amount of control and privacy back into the hands of a person who had, for a few days, given up their right to choose.

As she scrubbed the tub and sink, she thought, perhaps, there were a few scraps of one particular cushion cover that she wanted to keep, this time around. . .

_I can use them with that thing he got me for my last birthday. . . they even match. . ._

She giggled across the bond, _Just you wait, mister. . ._

He was four rooms away, upstairs and deep in his meditations, but managed to send back to her, _You are far too jovial for woman who has just recently been through what you have, k'diwa._

_Can't help it, husband. You make me happy._

_I am gratified. . ._

His mind trailed off as he went back into his deep meditative trance.

This time, as usual, he had offered to take the burden off her and order the servants to clean the space, no matter how distasteful he thought it to share _their_ room with anyone. But after she'd had a stint with a first-aid kit, a dermal regenerator, and taken an hours-long bath, eaten a beautifully large _hot_ meal, all the while listening to the satisfying _quiet_ in her mind, she felt up to the chore, as she normally did, especially since Sarek would be insisting she take a nap soon after. And he would probably massage her feet while she slept. . .

He would, in fact, be making it up to her for _months_. He always did.

She gathered most of the torn pillows and other cloth fragments into a trash compactor bag, and quickly ran a disinfector beam over the rest of them, and the bed, and the walls, slipping the handful of knotted cloth strips she wanted to keep into her pocket.

She smiled, thinking of the jewelry and dresses he'd ask her to pick out on their next Earth-assignment in few weeks. She deliberately did not buy clothes for nearly a year before his Time, knowing he'd be excessively lavish afterward. It would also be a good time to request a few cases of good wines to be stocked at the Embassy on Earth for use at her famous interplanetary dinner-socials.

After his Time, she could ask him for practically _anything_. . .

One time, she had mentioned in passing that she'd like to go horseback riding again one of these days, and the next time they went to Earth, he had _bought a ranch_.

_It's like having a genie in a bottle, but with infinite wishes instead of three._

To be honest, she always looked forward to the spoiling, but to her the best part was that he'd come home early for weeks, just to spend quiet time in her presence. He would even ask her to wake up early and meditate with him before he went to work. While he sat next to her consciousness, his mind would be so comfortable, so beautiful, so ordered yet so interesting that she hardly ever said no, knowing that his intent was to ease any _mental_ bruises she might have sustained from the pummeling melds he had inflicted on her.

She stood up and stretched. She _was_ fearfully sore. . . but that not unusual. She was often sore after their _normal_. . .

He coughed warningly at her though the bond.

 _You are not encouraging my meditations with such images_ , adun'a.

_I'm not sorry, husband._

_Neither am I. . ._ He trailed off again.

Sighing a little, she unfolded the fresh sheets Sarek had sent down, quickly tucked them neatly around the main mattress, rearranged the pile of pillows, and she was done. The little room could wait another seven years.

She inhaled happily, and picked up her cleaning supplies, making to leave.

A quote from somewhere ran through her mind, and Sarek caught it.

_Only you would think of Emerson at a time like this._

She smiled at him, and said it out loud anyway.

"Goodbye, proud world! I'm going home. . ."

* * *

_. . . Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine._

He had never cleaned the cave so quickly, and never, never with less he wished to remember.

_Long through thy weary crowds I roam;_

But they had still inundated him, a great flood of images, feelings, memories. They had practically driven him out from their stifling presence.

_A river-ark on the ocean brine,_

He cursed his Human heart, his Vulcan soul, his mixed heritage, the rocks around him, anything, anything to keep from _thinking_.

_Long I've been tossed like the driven foam;_

He had deliberately made his flight home longer than necessary, the wind and motion making it possible for him to hold back the rage of tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

_I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,_

And this was what his mother _looked forward to_ every seven years?

_At the sophist schools, and the learned clan._

He counted the minutes, the seconds that had passed since he had felt her, his wife-to-be, _hating_ him.

_To frozen hearts and hasting feet;_

At last, the silhouette of his father's house showed over the horizon.

_To those who go, and those who come;_

_Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home._

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_To'tsu'k'hy_ \- Nerve pinch; While invented as a method of swift assassination, in modern times it is used in many Vulcan martial arts as part of non-aggressive moves meant to stun, but inflict no permanent damage to one's opponent.

 _Ta'al_ \- The Vulcan hand-greeting/salute.

 _K'vass_ \- A Vulcan beverage reminiscent of hot-buttered rum, but completely non-alcoholic.

 _ **De-th'ek**_ \- Small croquettes made with coarsely ground _pi'fek_ flour, seasoned with spices and salt, often served with savory _shu'vasaya_ flatbread. Reminiscent of Terran falafel and pita bread.

 _ **Pi'fek**_ \- Pod bearing legume, akin to chickpeas

 _Vash g'ralth_ \- A Vulcan salad made of pickled vegetables; it has several common variations, but is almost always highly spicy.

 _Pla-savas_ \- Sweet blue to black-colored fruit, tasting like a mixture of sloe and blueberries.

 _Sa-mekh_ \- Father; male parent

 _Kafeh_ \- Slave

 _Spathel_ \- Canyon

 _ **Gu-vah-baet**_ \- Name of the canyon within the S'chn T'gai lands that contains the _kal'i'farr_ caves. Literally means "the duties we do".

 _ **Bat'h'pak**_ \- Damn it; Vulcan expletive

 _K'diwa_ \- Beloved. Contraction of the phrase "K'hat'n'dlawa", meaning "One who is half of my heart, and half of my soul".

"Goodbye" by Ralph Waldo Emerson can be found at - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175146


	8. Chapter Seven

_"For far too long it was considered a bad idea to mix species, genders and races on starships, especially on those starships which would be sent on the longer exploratory missions. But contrary to the more belligerent of our historians, it wasn't a xenophobic thing. Mostly it was the thought that putting so many variations in personalities, cultures and genetic makeups in an enclosed space for so long would only make for a huge interplanetary incident. Of course, that turned out to be correct, but that "incident" is called "Starfleet"."_

_\- From the Introduction to "Interspecies Ethics and Protocol", by Admiral Christopher Pike_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Everything about the High Council Building was intended to be intimidating.

Even Sarek, as he and his aide Maesok walked purposefully to the private meeting rooms, felt the intentional oppression of the overly tall, blocky columns, the steeply beamed ceilings, the unnaturally slick surfaces, and the cold white and grey color scheme, all of which were deeply unnerving to Vulcans, and markedly bleak to most other races as well.

It was like being in an ice cavern - A fairly accurate description of most Vulcan's concept of Hell.

He had long wondered why their most important planetary government building - and indeed all their public services buildings - had been constructed upon principles that would render the space deliberately daunting to anyone who found themselves within it. It was not until he was old enough to inherit his family's Council position that he had begun to understand.

It was logical, naturally, but the logic was as ancient as the building.

His ancestor Stobek, grandson of Surak and founder of Shi'Kahr, had been a great statesman, and an exemplary diplomat. In his time he had seen the rise of technology, and a strengthening of the Vulcan race that even Surak had not fully predicted.

He had also seen the beginning of politics, and had witnessed the rivalries, posturings, arguments and backstabbings that such leaders - even logical ones - could successfully rationalize. This turn of events had appalled him, and, leader that he was, he set out to right it. All places of government were transformed into shrines of sepulchral gravity, where if a man was a judge or complainant, an elected official, hereditary Lord, or clanless farmer, none of them would be allowed to dismiss the austerity of the law, nor would anyone be encouraged to engage in personal aggrandizement or frivolous speech.

Within the walls Stobek had commanded to be built, neither the great nor the common man could sit comfortably - their fates were the same. The building never allowed you to forget it.

Sarek accepted the logic, but he still wondered at the longevity of the idea. Two millennia was a long time in any culture, and that the grim, grand solemnity of Stobek's day had lasted into the modern era still mystified him.

Perhaps it was that the Vulcan soul had changed so little in that that time. . .

Maesok stepped ahead of him to type their security clearance codes into the entrance to the private areas of the building.

A High Convening had been called; only the seven elected Councilmen, the nineteen hereditary Advisors, and their top aides would be present.

As the Advisor from the Clan S'chn T'gai, of the line of Surak's House, not to mention Head Ambassador, Sarek's presence was not only needed, it was _demanded_.

He did wish, however, that he could have sent Maesok and have done with it. He knew the agenda for the day, and he highly suspected it would be as grueling and uncomfortable as the architecture.

Traditionally, at the end of each quarter, the Council would review the applications to the Science Academy, and choose from among them the ones deemed most likely to benefit from the curriculum. Their opinion was not official by law, but the faculty of the Academy never questioned the suggestions of the Council, nor did anyone the Council had not recommended get accepted.

Spock had applied this season.

Sarek foresaw a long and highly difficult day ahead of him.

He pushed open the massive, gleaming door of the private meeting room, and sat down at one of the high-backed, silver-grey chairs. Everything was so _cold_ , a shiver ran through him, chilling him to his bones. Not for the first time, he harbored a desire to have been born to a different position, a different fate. . . but no. That was illogical.

He gestured to Maesok and the aide handed him a PADD with the full agenda and all relevant, necessary documents on it. He pretended to review the data while he got his emotions under firm control.

Not long after, the rest of the High Council had settled around the table, waiting for President Veshon to begin.

While he waited, Sarek contemplated his cousin.

Veshon, due to several intricacies involved in Vulcan heredity, was of the clan S'chn T'gai, but not of the line of Surak. His wife, however, did hold that distinction. Their two daughters were both close to Spock's age, and Veshon, after he had observed the troubles Sarek had regarding the production of a suitable heir, had found it wise to solidify his own standing within the clan. Veshon had been elected to office - not to mention having _run_ for the position - while being much older than Councilors on Vulcan generally were. It was the hereditary Advisors who were meant to be old, well versed in the traditions, wisdom and history of their people. The Councillors were, far more often, younger, more idealistic, and in consequence brought fresh ideas and an energy to the Council that it would not have had otherwise. It was a good system, and well balanced. A Councilman could come from a lower clan, and often came even from the common folk. High Clan members had all Advisory positions - to garner more power for an already powerful entity such as a High Clan, and especially one such as S'chn T'gai, smelt greatly of pride, and even, faintly, of greed. In the eyes of the clan elders, it was very difficult to perceive Veshon's actions as anything other than a palpable bid for public favor.

T'Pau had pressed her lips together very tightly when she had learned of Veshon's candidacy. Such jockeying for recognition, and at Veshon's age, reflected badly not just on him, but on the clan as a whole. It would have been far better for him to endeavor to accept his place within the clan community.

Therefore it was not an exaggeration to say that the entire clan had been thoroughly surprised when, after the requisite twelve years in office, the Council had promoted Veshon to President.

It was a highly unusual situation, and it represented a fundamental shift in public sentiment that even T'Pau had not foreseen.

Veshon was traditional, a trait which Sarek could well appreciate, but he was also uncompromisingly formal, and had not a particle of imagination, but Sarek supposed, it was the fact that he was surely and solidly a part of Vulcan's ancient foundations that made his cousin so popular. The progressiveness of the past two-hundred years or so had resulted in a growing movement of cultural preservationists, even among the younger generations, and Veshon had made it clear that he would adhere strongly to pure Vulcan ways in all his decisions.

It was a somewhat awkward time to be the Scion of Surak. . . if you also happened to be half-Human.

It was even worse if you were one of his parents. . .

Indeed, when Sarek had announced his engagement to Amanda, and then later when he had been obliged to disinherit Sybok, T'Pau had named Veshon's daughters T'Seth and T'Sima as possible replacements as title-bearers. Their claim was incontestible, and the conduct of the girls themselves was impeccable. Sarek had been appreciative both times - in his deepest heart he had never expected his mother to be so open-minded as to even suggest that he remove some of the pressure from himself, and transfer the title of Scion - and he would even have agreed to do so - save that he was firmly convinced that this, and this alone, had been Veshon's ultimate intention. Having worked with his cousin for many years now, Sarek had been privy to many of Veshon's personally held beliefs, and had not been ignorant of the sly gleam that formed in his eyes whenever Sarek's suggestions to the Council were contested or overthrown. It had come to the point that Sarek would rather have gone to a Reldai during his Time, breaking Amanda's heart and getting an unnecessary full-Vulcan Heir, than let Veshon score his smug victory over him and over Spock. The Rules of Heredity were silent on the matter of an Heir's race - necessarily so, as nowhere in the works of Surak was the possibility of relationships between sentient species forbidden - rather the opposite, in fact. Veshon would never fully accept that, of course, but Sarek would see to it that he was obliged to tolerate it.

At last, Veshon broke the ritual silence by filling the tall, oddly shaped vase in front of him full of water, adding one drop of the precious blue mineral dye which officially designated this water as the Peace Bell for the current assembly, and striking the glass with the ancient ivory striker that usually rested near his left hand.

The pure tone brought the circle of men and women instantly to order.

"Our first candidate to consider today," said Veshon, without preamble, "Is K'mai, son of L'mahk, of the Lower Clan G'yth Tel-bah. His strengths include biochemistry and ecology, with a focus in atmospheric anomalies. . ."

Over six hours later, they had finished their discussions of 132 of the 133 candidates.

For the first 129 applicants, it was a fairly easy task. They were all Vulcans, fifty-three from the common folk, forty-eight from the Lower Clans, and twenty-eight from the High Clans. This cultural disparity was somewhat offset given that the majority of them were known to at least one Councillor in the room, either through academic or professional means, occasionally through broad social interactions, and more rarely, through family relation. Deciding the future path of these ones was not difficult for Sarek, nor was it often a contentious matter for anyone else around the table. Vulcan curricula vitae were quite succinct, and a small summary was usually enough to allow the assembly to decide. Approximately seventy-five percent of each cultural group were granted admission. On the rare occasions when there was any kind of debate, Veshon would listen closely for a few minutes, then would strike the Peace Bell and let silence reign for a long moment before calling for a vote. Such an action was necessary to keep the discussions from lasting hours; Logical though these debates were, opinions, like every other emotion, ran deep among them, and such ones like the applicant from a far-flung province who had nonetheless shown a high aptitude for urban city planning, _could_ have been discussed by the Council for days, let alone the three minutes Veshon allowed to each side to make their point.

Sarek, while he had decided not to take part in that debate, had given a yes to the applicant. He was unsure if the girl could adapt to life in Shi'Kahr adequately enough to find her first semester at the Academy profitable, but he was confident that, given time, she would. Besides the fact that she was clearly brilliant, she was of the common folk, her family not at all involved with Clan politics, nor, indeed, with anything other than their successful mining business.

The final three of the first 132 applicants were _not_ Vulcan, and Veshon allowed five minutes for each side to debate the acceptance or denial of these ones.

The first was a Human female, and refusal of her application was easy enough, as her academic standards were less than optimal, but still Sarek had argued in her favor, considering that she was an older student applying for training in color chemistry to aid her in her already well-established cloth-dying factory. He was, however, a clear minority.

The second was a Malurian male applying for a degree in warp drive engineering. There was hardly any debating the refusal of this application, as Malurian learning styles did not work well in a Vulcan teaching environment.

The third non-Vulcan applicant was the only one to spark any real discussion. He was a Human male, just recently graduated from a most prestigious Terran university with a degree in xenophysiology, and was now applying for the pre-medical course the VSA offered. This was his second application, his first having been accidentally rejected for technical reasons. This current application had been properly filed, thankfully, and everyone admitted that his scholastic standards were excellent.

However, he was Human.

Nearly all of the twenty-six Council members had something to say regarding his application, eight of them even spending their whole allotted five minutes when their turn came to speak. Sarek himself had argued for the man's admission, putting forward that if a Human well versed in Vulcan biology was also a doctor, then they would not harm either species, and that if any. . . _secret_. . . aspects of Vulcan's cyclic hormonal states did happen to be revealed to such a doctor, then professional standards of doctor/patient confidentiality would not only be _expected_ , but also could be _enforced_.

Veshon had been obliged to use the Peace Bell far more often during this debate than at any other time during the day.

When the time came for voting, Sarek had, at the last, voted no, not for any scholastic or moral reasons, but because he had read _all_ of the young man's records - even the seemingly irrelevant ones - and it appeared he had twice been reprimanded for not only participating in, but also _hosting_ an unauthorized social gathering in the school's dormitories. Sarek knew that these "parties" were normal for Humans, and participation therein did not constitute mental instability, but for a person who found such things desirable to be placed in an institute where they were not only forbidden but had no chance of being understood? No. It would be blatant cruelty to do that. The young man would have to receive his medical training somewhere else, but Sarek did receive permission to write an addendum to the refusal notification, wherein he suggested that an internship, after the majority of his academic requirements had been met elsewhere, would be appropriate.

In any case, Sarek highly doubted that the Vulcan Science Academy had heard the last of Jabilo 'Geoffry' M'Benga.

After this, Veshon ordered a short recess, calling for water and food to be served to all councilors and their aides.

Sarek wanted to know why his son had been left until last, but he refrained from asking.

He felt that soon he would know - in any case.

When Veshon called the meeting back to order - with a soft striking of the Peace Bell - Sarek thought he detected a trace of reluctance in the man's voice, a strange half-hesitance, so like his own gut-deep dislike of the very thought of what he was sure was to be a dramatic scene, that for one brief and disorienting second, he actually felt in tune with his cousin.

"We have but one more application today, as I am sure you all know," said Veshon, unnecessarily and uncharacteristically garrulous, "So. Shall we begin?" Sarek felt his cousin's eyes upon him, but refused to look at him.

"Our final applicant for today is S'chn T'gai Spokh," Sarek bristled as Veshon gave his son his proper name, "Applying for a degree in starship command. His strengths include a degree in interstellar physics, with a focus in starship interactions, and a double major in xenochemistry, with a focus in plant biology. His minor in subspace communications must also be mentioned, as well as his extra-curricular work in warp drive engineering and xenolinguistics." Veshon paused, "Quite impressive, considering."

Sarek raised an eyebrow, "Considering. . . what, precisely?"

"Considering," said Veshon, flatly, "His record of emotional outbursts."

Sarek held his emotionless expression, but he was surprised. He had expected Veshon to cite Spock's part-Human genetics as reason enough for dismissal. But Veshon was approaching from a different direction, an unexpected angle.

He must proceed cautiously.

"To which incidents are you referring, President?"

The barest trace of an indulgent smile crossed Veshon's face, "Why, the incident when the applicant attacked and nearly killed a schoolmate and then refused to give an accounting as to why." He tapped the PADD in front of him, "Such a blot would normally be enough to dismiss any such application, but given the applicant's name and position. . ."

"Were it anyone but my son," Sarek interrupted, "You would say the cause was sufficient."

An uncomfortable tremor swept briefly around the table.

"Are you denying the import of the incident?"

"I am questioning its relevance."

"Are you indeed?" Both of Veshon's eyebrows were raised to their full extent. "Well then, would you be kind enough to explain what cause there could be for such actions on the part of the Scion of Surak?"

Sarek was aware that he was not the only one who could hear the biting sarcasm in Veshon's voice.

"It is my belief that the boy my son attacked had, in actuality, issued the _toria'tal_ challenge."

All the councilors looked around the table, and murmured briefly to each other.

Spock had explained to him that day - the other boy had deliberately insulted Spock, his mother, and his father. Such words were illogical, deliberately inflammatory, and specifically directed to illicit an emotional response. As such, they were nothing more nor less than a form of the Death Challenge. Actions taken under an acceptance of the _toria'tal_ were legal, if not entirely logical. Veshon, more than anyone, knew that under Vulcan law, if Spock had been responding to a Challenge, then his actions were not only allowed, but fully traditional, and acceptable.

"That is a grave statement," said Veshon, seriously, "What proof have we of it?"

"The proof of my son's word," said Sarek, energetically holding back an instinctual need to be offended, "And the fact that he told no one save myself the full truth of the incident."

"You find a lie of omission to be commendable?"

"I find acts of concealment to be necessary, on occasion." Underneath the table, Sarek pressed two fingertips together, "To have revealed the fact of the Challenge would have demanded someone's blood. I felt that enough blood had been spilled."

The councilors around the table nodded in agreement with the logic.

"Do you find the applicant's _acceptance_ of the challenge to be commendable, then?"

"No," Sarek was not prepared for this particular discussion, but he did know his own mind on the matter, "However, we are not discussing the outcome, but rather the cause. Was it sufficient?"

Veshon nodded briefly, and in the midst of his relief, Sarek remembered the year following this incident, when Spock had thrown so much effort into his schooling that he had advanced a class - effectively taking himself out of the vicinity of those who found the issuing of a Death Challenge to be a light matter. Rather than confront them again, Spock had preferred to refuse the challenge without seeming to do so.

Sarek also remembered his pride in his son when he had realized that this was what he had done.

"I feel it necessary to mention," he said into the silence, "That during the past three and a half years he has worked most diligently for the Vulcan Scientific Exploration Fleet, and has written one hundred and fifty nine published articles for them, ranging in subject from shipboard hydroponics to subspace communication anomalies, to matter/antimatter containment fields, and all of which, as I am sure you are aware, are about to be collectively published as an introductory preparation manual for those wishing to join our Fleet."

Most of the councilors around the table nodded in acceptance.

"And what," said Veshon, apparently deciding that the direct attack was the most effective after all, "Are we to make of this applicant's Human heritage?"

Sarek bristled, then relaxed, "I fail to see what bearing the species of the applicant's mother has on this discussion."

"It has been suggested that the teaching methods employed at our Academy are ineffective for most other races, and thus it would be illogical to accept applicants who would fail to benefit from the curriculum."

Sarek almost laughed, "To my knowledge, fifteen other sentient species have adopted Vulcan teaching methods with great success, and at least twenty more developed similar methods at the same time we did, to even greater success."

"But Humans are not one of them?" asked Veshon, knowing the answer.

"No."

His cousin became ever so slightly petulant, "Then what is your recommendation?"

"I recommend that the Council consider the fact that the Humans have not adopted our teaching practices for a number of reasons, their successful reliance on intuition being a factor, and I would state that such a broadly useful and indomitable type of intelligence is unlikely to need approval to continue succeeding."

Veshon's mouth twitched, "So you support the opinion that the applicant should be denied?"

"Not at all," Sarek suddenly found himself enjoying the debate, "I merely state that, in this instance, the opinion of this Council may be completely irrelevant."

"Were you aware that the applicant has also applied to Starfleet?"

Sarek blinked, "I was not."

"He was accepted there, of course," his cousin's tone made it clear that he believed _anyone_ could easily obtain an acceptance to Starfleet Academy, "All that remains is to decide if the application here, to this institution, has logical merit."

"I am confused, I thought that we were discussing his scholastic merit."

Starfleet? Why would Spock apply to Starfleet?

"We must all accept the consequences of logical decisions," said Veshon, pompously, "This has little to do with academics."

"And yet we are discussing his personal attributes, not the logic of his decisions."

"May I remind you, Ambassador, that you are not here as the father of the applicant, but in your capacity as an Advisor to the Council?"

Sarek almost sighed, "And may I remind you, Councillor Veshon, that assuming superiority or inferiority based solely on the factor of genetics is not only scientifically unsound, but also illogical?"

Vice-president T'Mar struck the Peace Bell. She had not spoken at all for the last seven hours, as was her wont at meetings, but now she stepped in where the President was clearly unable to act.

"I would like to remind everyone - "Nobility lies in action, not in name."

She quoted Surak to them as though they had _all_ forgotten. Veshon had the grace to look chagrined for a moment.

"Shall we vote?" he said, quietly.

The twenty-six men and women all lowered their heads and tapped their votes into the PADD's they had before them.

The vote came back - two against, twenty-four in favor.

"Very well," said Veshon, resolutely schooling his voice and expression to utter blankness, "Call him for an audience this afternoon."

T'Mar quickly dismissed the assembly to cover everyone's surprise at Veshon's last statement. It went against all protocol and made no logical sense.

Sarek sent the summons to his son with a hand that very nearly trembled with what he could only describe are extreme apprehension.

* * *

As they entered the High Council chamber, Veshon pulled him aside.

"It will not be necessary for you to speak during this confrontation, cousin." Veshon managed to imply censure without placing emotion in his words.

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "I am still an Advisor to the Council, Veshon - I will speak when and if it is necessary."

"And I have told you: it will not be necessary."

Sarek let a very small smirk twist his lips, "You have not paid attention when you have met my son, have you, Councillor?"

Veshon gave him a warning look, but said no more.

As soon as all the Council were in their places, the doors opened, and Spock entered, with the same slow grace that Sarek had tried to learn from T'Pau, but could never quite manage.

Veshon waited until Spock stood still before them, looking up at the Council like he was their equal.

"You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors," said Veshon, simply, "Your final record is flawless, with one exception: I see that you have applied to Starfleet as well."

Spock looked surprised that the Councilor was even mentioning it.

"It was logical to cultivate multiple options."

Veshon half-smirked, "Logical, but unnecessary. You are hereby accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy. It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage. All rise."

Sarek stood with the rest of the Council, even though he was somewhat stunned at his cousin's words - what was the fool _doing_?

"If you would clarify, Councilor, to what disadvantage are you referring?"

Spock at least sounded calm.

Veshon's answer did not.

"Your human mother."

For a long moment, Sarek could not credit his ears. What Veshon had just said. . . it was not only rude, it issued the _toria'tal_ challenge! According to Vulcan law, Spock now had the right to demand the Councilman fight him, until blood was spilled if he wished. . . if they had not been blood relatives, Spock could quite lawfully _kill_ him - and a case could still be made if he happened to wish him dead. Veshon was. . . was. . . _testing_ Spock, but was doing so with his very _life_.

But the look now in his son's eyes was not murderous - it was, however, intensely disappointed - not with what had been said, but with the Council itself.

Sarek found that he shared the feeling.

Spock made up his mind very quickly, "Council. . . Advisors, I must decline."

Sarek was once again proud of his son. He was refusing to take Veshon's Challenge, and would most likely remove himself from the area for a while. . .

Veshon had not expected this. . . or had he? "No Vulcan has ever declined admission to the Academy!" His voice sounded only artificially surprised.

Spock nearly smirked. "Then, as I am half-Human, your record remains untarnished."

It was something Amanda would say. Sarek could not remember ever being prouder of his son, but he also must be reminded in what company he was speaking. It could be dangerous for Spock to say anything else in such a Human manner.

"Spock," he said, calmly, "You have made a commitment to honor the Vulcan way."

Veshon could not fault him for such an aside. . . but his cousin, having issued a challenge, was apparently determined to either goad Spock into fighting, or drive him away from Vulcan entirely. . .

"Why did you come before this council today?" his kinsman asked, with a shameful amount of emotion in his voice, which Sarek hoped the rest of the Council noticed, "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"

Spock had certainly noticed - his next words were said with a very carefully hidden sarcasm that Veshon could not fail to identify, "The only emotion _I_ wish to convey is gratitude. Thank you, Councilors, for your consideration."

Sarek met his son's raking glance, and for a moment father and son were in perfect harmony.

" _Live long_ and _prosper_."

His italics were _devastating_.

For once, Sarek was immensely grateful that Spock had not chosen to pursue a career in the Diplomatic Corps. His son was able to say, and _had_ said, in those four words, all he himself could have possibly wished to say, and _do_ , to their kinsman for insinuating such stupid, vile, illogical. . . _insults_.

_There is no offense where none is intended._

He believed that phrase, at this moment, constituted what Amanda would call "Vulcan Bullshit". Veshon had meant to offend.

And he had succeeded.

* * *

When the Council adjourned for the day, Sarek approached Veshon in his private office. The highly ostentatious decor of the place did not escape Sarek's notice. Yes, Veshon coveted a position far above his proper station.

"Kinsman, I have a favor to ask," Sarek said, almost kindly.

The Councilor raised his eyebrows a fraction, "Please do, cousin."

"T'Pau and my wife are giving a banquet soon, and I desire your presence among the guests."

"I would be honored. . ."

"Indeed," Sarek's voice became as hard as it had ever been, "Just as I am sure you would be honored, while in attendance, to _attempt_ to recompense them both for the loss of the Heir of our House. I am sure you will fail, but an attempt would be appreciated."

The other man blinked, "There are others who can take up the title. . ."

"And that will never be your choice to make, Veshon." Sarek's voice was entirely inflectionless, and thoroughly dangerous, "Thank all the gods that are or ever were that you will never make that choice. . ." He raised his hands in an ancient fighting posture, "The blood between us prevents _me_ from issuing the proper challenge, but know this, Veshon; Were you any other man, and had spoken thus to me and mine, your head would already be hanging from my fist." He thawed out the merest trifle as he saw the other man cringe, "It will be necessary to bring a _large_ gift for my wife, and show yourself humble before her. . ." He let his his eyes flick disgustedly over Veshon from head to foot, "If that is possible. As she is _Human_. . ." he lingered pointedly over the word, "I am sure she will forgive you. . . Eventually."

He let a small smirk curl his lips, "I am uncertain that T'Pau will be as easily palliated. Her wrath may cost you your seat on the Council."

Sarek enjoyed the other man's involuntary start far more than he should have.

He turned his back on his kinsman, "Next time you make an emotional decision, it would be well to remember that such things have consequences."

Sarek stalked out of the room, not satisfied, but calmed for the moment.

Starfleet. . .

There were worse places. . .

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Toria'tal_ \- The challenge to the death, or death challenge. Still legal when issued between non-blood-related Vulcans, but it is considered a highly illogical method of settling differences.


	9. Chapter Eight

_"People talking without speaking,_   
_People hearing without listening,_   
_People writing songs that voices never share,_   
_And no one dared,_   
_Disturb the sound of silence."_

_\- From "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel_

* * *

_"Gossip, like warp drives, moves faster than light."_

_\- Jonathan Archer_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

He packed as though he was not going to be gone for years.

One change of clothing and three changes of underclothing would be ample for the three day journey to Earth. Next to his geometrically folded trousers and shirt there was a PADD, and a box of full memory chips and a box of blank ones, a genuine paper-printed edition of _The Jungle Books - The Complete Stories of Mowgli_ , a tin of tea, a small container of his mother's homemade habañero chili powder, an incense burner, and a packet of his most preferred blend of incense. The small satchel was full. His _ka'athyra_ was safely boxed in its special carrying case, and his communicator, identification cards and credit chits were all secured on his person.

Everything else he could possibly need or want was either waiting for him on Earth, or could easily be bought whenever the need arose.

He had said goodbye to his mother the previous evening, when she had made a special meal for him, and afterward had insisted upon kissing his cheek and hugging him. He supposed he had been lucky she did not begin to cry.

He had promised to call.

It was now 0415 hours - his father would most likely be deep in his early morning meditations, and his mother would be asleep.

The shuttle he had booked ran its Earth-Vulcan round trip on Federation Standard Time - its departure would take place at 0500 hours local time - to allow their projected arrival on Earth to coincide with the time cycle used at Starfleet Headquarters.

He did not intend to spend unnecessary time to redundantly say farewell.

Besides - he had never needed anyone's permission to leave the house.

He drew the zip on his bag closed, and breathed deep.

This was, admittedly, a much different sort of leaving than he had ever done before.

He looked once more around his room, as much to be assured he had not forgotten anything as to remind himself that this course of action was indeed what he truly desired.

The room looked back at him like he had already been gone for years.

Lifting his things, he turned to go. . . and a soft golden gleam from the surface of his writing area caught his eye.

It was the IDIC medallion. . .

He had not packed it.

With only a slight hesitation, he reached out to pick it up. . .

* * *

_He set his hoverbike down outside the walled homestead complex._

_This was not the first time he had been here, but it was the first time he had come to her home, purposely seeking her out._

_As yet, he was unsure if he was apprehensive at the prospect._

_All High Clans were different from S'chn T'gai, in that they were often called upon to prove their importance in Vulcan history. Surak's House was assumed to be important, but all the others must work for their recognition. A clan's heraldic shield and family colors were proof enough of this. The House of Surak employed two muted tones of cool grey, highlighted with lines of rich, pearlescent cobalt blue - the rarest naturally occurring color to be found upon Vulcan. Such cool, yet gentle colors were, in the eyes of nearly all Vulcans, the epitome of an understated, yet_ _**important** _ _combination. Most other clans used black or white, a bright saturated color, and metallic highlights. Such things caught attention, made an aesthetic impression, and for good or for ill, declared that they_ _**needed** _ _to carve their own place in the history books, and had to work for their notoriety and power._

_The Houses of Tassus and Mat'ga - Surak's trusted disciples and emissaries - had eight Clans under the wings of their names, whereas the name of Surak had only one. Mat'ga the Faithful had borne Tassus the Bold eight strong children, and each had become a Clan unto themselves; the three females taking the House Name of their mother and the five males naming themselves by the House of their father._

_There would never be a lack of Heirs for Tassus - and if you were one, you either had to do, or be, something extraordinary. That is, if you wanted to be anything more than simply listed in the genealogy tables._

_It was clear that Velon's ancestors had intended the line of the Clan H'kl Y'ner to be the easy choice for the historians. Their Clan House was impressively tall for so old a building - four levels, with the lowest level twice as tall as was considered usual. The three porches on the Eastern wing were all supported by massive_ Tsek-var - _Story Columns. They were covered in the flowing rune script of Classic Vulcan, presumably telling some or all of the Clan legends - Spock had never paused there long enough to read them. There were an abundance of sculptures in the front garden, and on the western edge of the property there was a very obvious entrance to a natural underground Music Cave - a rare and desirable volcanic formation that boasted perfect interior acoustics - quite a status symbol for any piece of land._

_It was all very traditional, but very self-consciously so. Odd, he thought, as he stood in front of the eastern side door, that such a place would embody the current Vulcan zeitgeist. It was so. . . stereotypically. . . Vulcan. No one could mistake the formal layouts or the styles. But, it looked. . . loud. He had never considered what life in a clan other than his own must be like these days. He was so used to the assumption of importance, the lack of need to prove the value of one's name. . ._

_His whole focus on proving himself Vulcan was so intensely personal, he had forgotten that there were whole clans who spent generations in essentially the same task. And it had not occurred to him until this very moment that his whole race, once it had helped to begin the Federation, had also found it essential to prove and re-prove itself among its cosmic neighbors._

_For a moment, he felt the peace that understanding can bring, but then, out of seemingly nowhere, he was unable to keep from thinking of five months ago, when they had stood not far from here, and she had hated him._

_Yes. He had decided. He was apprehensive._

_The door opened not five seconds after he rang the bell, and he was welcomed indoors almost immediately - the household staff knew him and what his connection to their family was. His request to be escorted to T'Pring's rooms was complied with without question._

_This was the first time he had been within her home, and the inside was no less striking than the outside - more so, even, for sensitive Vulcan eyes._

_The floors were of one of two patterns - a violet marble that would have been impressive had it been two or three shades less vibrant - or a small tile mosaic in black and white that seemed to turn and move beneath his feet with several quite disorienting optical illusions._

_Though the walls were of a blessedly neutral grey stone, they were little better to look at, for most of them - that he could see, of course - were covered in tapestries that told the geneologies and history of the Clan and House. Not such a bad thing of themselves, but he could have appreciated them more if the clan colors had not been black, white, metallic silver, and a shade of eye-stinging purple which only ought to have been presented in small doses._

_For a Human, it would no doubt seem to be a dignified place, grand, even royal, but in the eyes of a Vulcan it was gaudy, overdone, too obviously and noisily demanding attention._

_Not like T'Pring at all. . ._

_It only took eighteen seconds inside the house for Spock to begin to long for his own Clan's cool greys and dark blue. And then a mere five seconds more for him to wish for T'Pau's or his mother's undeniable good tastes._

_He wondered how T'Pring could stand it._

_Twenty-three seconds later, the servant delivered him to her rooms, and Spock saw that Velon's daughter, in contrast to the rest of the household, did_ _**not** _ _stand it. He stood in her receiving room, shocked and not a little relieved._

_She still lived like she was deep within the lifestyle of Gol._

_Stepping into her suite of rooms was much like closing a door on a sandstorm - the presence of the other, louder place was not forgotten, but the assurance of peace within was more than merely comforting, it was almost seductive in its emptiness._

_This, he had not expected._

_It was not unacceptable._

_The dark warm grey, heavy brown, and pale off-white of the Reldai colors slid into his senses as he waited patiently for her to see him._

_It was the first time he had sought her out. Strange that he now felt no apprehension._

_In fact, also for the first time, a small bubbling of affection rippled through him._

_Perhaps it was merely the visual shock of entering her space, or the surprising revelation that she had not, in fact, integrated well with her father's family after all, but here, with the blank walls, reed matted floor, low furniture, and dark outlines of every shape impressing the harmony of the room upon him, he felt that for the first time, he knew T'Pring. Not even a plant or round form relieved the sombre grid of the space, but it was still warm and secure here, self assured, and thoroughly disciplined._

_He decided not to sit while he waited. His body would break the pattern._

_When she at last came out to see him, bringing with her the deeply private scent of her incense, he paid her the courtesy she had lent him by allowing him to wait here for her, and not in the too-bright desperation of the rest of the house. He came straight to the point._

_"I have sent my application to the VSA; they decide tomorrow."_

_She nodded, then said, without hesitation, "You do not expect them to accept you."_

_It was not a question._

_"No, I do not."_

_"Then, what do you intend to do?"_

_She asked as one who cared not at all one way or the other, but he was surprised to find a small flash of fear. . . or was it sorrow? . . . dashed through her eyes, almost too quickly to notice._

_Almost._

_"I took the Starfleet entrance exam three months ago, when I was on Earth. I passed."_

_She nodded, as if to say "Of course you did"._

_"I have been accepted as a graduate student and granted the rank of Lieutenant. I begin classes at the start of the Winter term - three and a half weeks from now."_

_Her eyes snapped to his, suddenly understanding why he had come to her._

_"On Earth."_

_"Yes."_

_Her hands fell to her sides. Slowly and unconsciously she clenched them into fists. "And. . . what about. . ."_

_"It is my belief that you. . . will revert to your former state of only needing me through dreams when . . . when I am no longer in close proximity to you during. . ." he made an incomprehensible gesture, "During."_

_"There is no empirical proof of that."_

_"No reason to believe otherwise, either."_

_"You cannot take me with you,_ Sa-kugalsu _?"_

_He blinked, startled. Such a request from her was even more surprising than her apparent self seclusion from her own chosen clan. She had chosen to be an outcast among those who would desperately claw to be anything but outcast. Would she ever truly wish to join him in his journeys, compounding the problem?_

_He inhaled as the last word of her question finally hit him._

_It was the first time she had ever - to his face - acknowledged him as her husband-to-be._

_"I. . . had not considered that option," he admitted, slowly, "Though, it is to be reasoned that such a change in atmosphere, living quarters, etc., would not be to your liking."_

_She drew herself up, holding her body even straighter than usual, "And to continue living, sane and whole - would you consider that to be to my liking?"_

_He almost sighed, "Do you wish to accompany me to Earth?"_

_"No."_

_"Then why do you ask it?"_

_She paused a long time, thoughts and emotions clearly warring with reason behind her eyes._

_He had not expected any of this encounter._

_He had come to inform her - in person - of his decision to leave Vulcan for further schooling. He had expected her usual cold reception, her normal over-logical curtness at least, or a dry dismissal at worst._

_Yet, here she was, showing regret, even longing._

_He had not seen her since her last Time, five months ago. He had assumed that the hate she bore for him then would have lasted until now._

_He had not expected her to be sorry. . ._

_A heavy coil of shame looped around his heart. He did not know her. For all he had tried to be what she wanted - or rather, not to be what she did not want - he only knew the surface of her, and nothing of what he ought to know._

_He was only half Vulcan, and he had failed to be even that with her._

_At last her hand came up from her side, fingering the medallion she wore._

_"You mean to go, then?" She was too obviously keeping all inflection from her voice._

_"Yes."_

_"You have always. . . meant. . . to go, I think."_

_"And I think I was meant to go."_

_"Like calls to like, you mean?" She did not call him Human, but that was her clear meaning._

_He let a sharpness enter his eyes. "I mean that one goes where one is needed."_

_She looked away from him, that odd sorrow fleeting though her expression once again._

_He saw it, but would not lower the Human flag to anyone, least of all to this young woman who could so easily have laid claim to him, but managed only to be the same sort of sting in his heart that he apparently was to her._

_"I think, Spock, that you have not fully considered all your options."_

_He raised one eyebrow slightly, and waited for her to continue._

_"I. . . have one thing that you do not have - possibly will never have."_

_"And what is that?"_

_"A degree from the VSA."_

_This was true. While he had opted to spend nearly four years building his curriculum vita with the Vulcan Fleet, she had entered the VSA directly from her graduation from the Great Shi'oren. She was a brilliant mathematician, and a highly effective engineer, already making a name for herself in Shi-Kahr's finest design laboratories._

_"I am aware of your accomplishments, T'Pring," he said, not unkindly, "They are well earned." He tilted his head, looking at her askance, "But, I do not see what bearing that has upon this discussion."_

_Her hands unclenched, then clenched again, faster and harder than before, "You. . . you. . ._ _**could** _ _have the one thing I cannot have in this world, and would do most anything to have. Would it not be justice, each of us possessing the other's most treasured desires?"_

_Now, he did sigh, in exasperation. "T'Pring, I do not pretend to understand you. . ."_

_"Gol!" she spat, "Kolinahr! My. . . condition. . ." she grit her teeth in clear shame at her genetics, "It bars me forever from that which I dreamed of as a child - from that which I grew up among!" She swiftly removed the medallion she wore, thrusting it into his hands, "I have what you do not - why cannot you attain where I may not?"_

_He looked down at the IDIC, at the small amethyst set in its midst, thinking that this, and this only, was the concession she made to being daughter of Velon, Heir of Tassus._

_One tiny speck of color. . . but it_ _**did** _ _lay at the very heart of her._

 _"You would ask me to complete_ kolinahr _?" he asked wonderingly. Such a request was unheard of, almost a shame to think of._

_"Yes."_

_"But I have no calling. . . and I am no criminal, to be put to it for the safety of others. . ."_

_"And what of_ _**my** _ _safety?"_

_"Your. . ."_

_"The safety of my mind, Spock."_

_He did not attempt to conceal his confusion, "In all our interactions, T'Pring, your safety has been my only concern. To what are you referring?" A shade of anger had crept into his tone._

_She looked him straight in the eyes, defiant and beautiful._

_"The chaos of your emotions renders my bond to you distracting."_

_It was a lie. They both knew it._

_It lay between them, bald-faced and ugly._

_The truth was the exact opposite - neither of them ever sensed more than the barest necessities from the other through the bond. Only during her Time did they utilize it; his Time was yet to come, might never come._

_Yet there was more to it than that._

_He had saved her life, yes, but she had never had the pleasure of reciprocating._

_She had never had her due, her woman's due of being necessary. Of being needed._

_They could keep each other at arm's length as much as they wished, but they were not equals in this relationship, and might never be._

_As yet, she had given him at least_ _**some** _ _of the advantages of being bonded, while she had been obliged to be satisfied with nothing. Nothing at all. . . save her life, and that she felt, and truly, made her unbearably beholden to him._

 _If he completed_ kolinahr, _she would never have to repay the debt of trust she owed him. Even if his Time did come, he could not make any further emotional demands on her, and she would never have to give him her heart. They would be equals, at last and forever._

 _All at once, the shame lifted from him. She thought him Vulcan enough to attempt it, his strength enough to withstand the trials, and his_ katra _desirable enough to suggest an extreme action in order to keep it near her own. But they had already been to extremes. Hatred and fear. Coldness and silence. The canyon of misunderstanding was resolute. There was no middle ground for them. It was over._

_It was already far too late for them, and that was the fault of no one._

_Her lie still lay between them, but he was thankful for it. It had given him back his self-respect._

_Finally, the last option occurred to him - the one she could not lawfully mention._

_"I give you my permission to search for a choice-mate."_

_Her eyes widened. She said nothing._

_"May I have your permission also?"_

_His voice did not falter._

_She nodded, slowly._

_He offered the IDIC back to her._

_"Keep it," she said, her voice hard, "It is of no use to me."_

_He turned to go._

_Her voice followed him, the sound of it meaning more to him than the bond ever had._

_"Peace and long life, Spock."_

_He did not remember if he had answered her._

* * *

He drew his hand back, and left the medallion on the desk.

_When a door is closed, the way is clear._

He had no use for it either, and he turned away from it, grimacing slightly at the drama of the symbolism.

_If only that were true. . ._

He closed the door of his room behind him. . .

* * *

_When he moved to open the door to the High Council chamber, a voice called him back._

_"Spock, come here, let me see you."_

_The summons had come from his father. Today was the day they considered the applications for enrollment to the VSA. And he had been summoned, not by the Council, not by the President, but by his father. It was such an unusual request that Amanda had insisted upon accompanying him._

_He did not understand why - she could not come with him into their presence, and her only function would be distracting._

_"No."_

_"Spock."_

_His name sounded like a legend when she said it. A myth, or some sort of prophecy. He was powerless to resist her unashamed Humanity._

_He might have chosen to be Vulcan, but of his two parents, his mother was the one he wished he could be more like._

_He relented and stood next to her for a moment; she reached up and began fidgeting with his collar. He endured it for as long as he could, then gently removed her hands from him._

_"There's no need to be anxious," she said, clearly anxious herself, "You'll do fine."_

_If he did not reassure her, she would worry._

_She must not worry._

_"I am hardly anxious mother. And fine has variable definitions. Fine is unacceptable."_

_As he had intended, the look on her face changed from highly nervous to indulgently tolerant. "Okay," she said, obviously controlling herself, "Okay."_

_She smiled at him, so much in her expression that he did not try to decipher it. He wondered if he would ever be such a mystery to anyone as much as Amanda Grayson was a mystery to all of Vulcan._

_Human emotions were so_ _**malleable** _ _._

_He possessed at least partially Human emotions._

_Was T'Pring's request in fact so very unreasonable?_

_He held back a sigh. This was neither the time, nor the place, but he had been distracted by the thought of_ kolinahr _for the full twenty-four hours since T'Pring had suggested it. That IDIC medallion seemed branded upon his mind's eye - it was all he could think of. His Human uncertainty had compromised every conclusion he had drawn, and worse, his Vulcan intensity had very nearly driven him to take up the challenge she had put to him. It was the sort of dichotomy that he loathed about himself - he could stay in this limbo for years if he did not reach a decision soon, and he must. . . he_ _ **must**_ _decide. Yes, now, before he confronted the Council. . . and his father._

_And Amanda was far more used to dealing with Human uncertainties than he was. . ._

_He looked at her, trying, as he always did, to find some similarity in her features to what he saw in the mirror each day, and, as usual, finding nothing, he lowered his voice to speak to her. . . and possibly give her the greatest insult a son ever could._

_"May I ask a personal query?"_

_"Anything."_

_"Should I choose to complete the Vulcan discipline of_ kolinahr, _and purge all emotion?" He paused when he saw surprise in her eyes. Grateful only that it was not anything worse, he hurried on - "I trust you will not feel it reflects judgement upon you. . ."_

_He knew the smile this time. It was chiding. "Oh, Spock. . ." she took his wrists, careful not to touch his skin, "As always, whatever you choose to be, you will have a proud mother."_

_How was it, he wondered, did she always seem to know what to say, never more nor less than the exact words his Vulcan mind needed to hear, and yet she still spoke them like a Human?_

_He had no doubt she had divined that he was speaking of an issue with T'Pring - the only bond which he possessed that could possibly keep him from leaving Vulcan. She had known for years that he did not ever expect to be accepted to the VSA - despite credentials that any Vulcan would have traded their left-frontal lobe to possess - and she knew that Starfleet not only would accept him, but, in fact, was at its core far more suited to what he wanted from life. Adventure. Discovery. The Unknown._

_She had always been of the opinion that T'Pring stood in his way._

_For the first time he was inclined to think she was right._

_In one simple sentence, she had given him permission to be his own person - not tied to anyone, anything, or even any ideal. More than that, she had effortlessly turned his decision making process fully around. Now, instead of thinking only inwardly, he thought outward._

_His choice must be the best for everyone - not merely the least harm to himself._

_He would go. Most likely the Council would dismiss him out of hand, humiliate him, and, possibly, if he was very fortunate, offer him some half-decent permanent position aboard a halfway decent Vulcan ship whose patrol arc would never go beyond an already charted sector. He would spend his life doing nothing interesting, and his father would be powerless to protect him from such a fate._

_Much, much better, for all concerned, if he went to Earth._

_"You could always take the fourth year of_ c'thia _training at the Embassy. . . just to see if you liked it or not." She released his wrists and stepped away from him._

_"Liking or disliking such training is. . ."_

_"Is illogical, I know," she grinned lopsidedly, "But I think you know what I meant."_

_"Yes mother - I will consider it." It wasn't such a bad idea, at that. Every educated Vulcan was required to take the first three years of it, learning formal meditation, emotional suppression and projection, and martial arts. Voluntarily taking the fourth year was not uncommon, even popular, given the traditionalist atmosphere these days. It was only in the fifth year a student had to commit to the full nine-year process. Yes. It was a good idea. No need to make a hasty or emotional decision, no need to let the idea of full_ kolinahr _distract him while he had much bigger events to think about._

_He found himself inexpressibly thankful that Amanda had accompanied him, after all._

_"T'Shah is living there now - you could ask her for help. . ."_

_His mother's favorite Healer, the woman who had helped her through her pregnancy with him, was a_ c'thia _master and had completed_ kolinahr _years before Amanda had met her._

_"I did not know that T'Shah had moved to Earth."_

_Amanda nodded._

_The Human in him wished he could say something else, but the rest of him scarcely knew what it was he wished to say._

_"Now, shouldn't you be going?" she shooed him along, then went to stand by the window, looking out at the bright heat of the city._

_He steeled himself inwardly for what awaited him within, and reached once more for the great double-leaved doors that led to the icy cold Council chamber._

_Slowly, the massive doors opened, silently and smoothly, almost of their own accord, and he washed all expression from his face as he strode in to meet the twenty six people who had already decided his fate._

_He stood, and looked up at them, waiting once more to hear of his unacceptable otherness._

_It began. . . and. . . they did_ _**not** _ _dismiss him out of hand, nor proceed to mock his Humanity as he had expected. No, Veshon had nominally_ _**accepted** _ _him. . . and then proceeded to insult both his Human_ _**and** _ _his Vulcan ancestry - in the presence of his father, yet - and in the process issued a quite unconscionable Death Challenge._

_Unexpected._

_And quite intolerable._

_He walked out of the Council's presence feeling both light and heavy, both liberated and somehow crushed. He stood on legs that were not his own, but his memory of what had been said sat on his heart like a dry stone. And_ _**was** _ _his memory playing tricks on him? Had he truly declined an acceptance to the VSA?_

_Declined?_

_An_ _**acceptance** _ _?_

Why did not my father take off Veshon's head?

_Amanda asked no questions when he exited the Council chamber far sooner than she had expected. She said nothing as he stalked out of the building towards her flitter, and he did not object, as he usually did, when she took the pilot controls._

Why did I not accept the challenge? I have before. . .

_He was silent the entire journey home, and, thankfully, his mother let him be._

Why is it that, as soon as I think a thing is understood or predictable, something thoroughly unexpected must come along and make the situation twice as complicated?

_He did not clearly recall going from flitter to house, but he must have done, for he was sitting at the kitchen table, a freshly made pot of tea steeping near his elbow, and his mother coming to sit across from him, bringing a plate of some fresh honey biscuits._

Was I truly accepted, or were they all afraid of my father - or of T'Pau?

_"Spock?"_

No, that cannot be - Veshon is our cousin. . . how could my _cousin_ issue a Death Challenge. . .?

 _"Spock-_ kam _?"_

He dared! And in the same breath offered me what I have always aspired to. . . _Kaiidth._ I have refused it now. There is no going back. . .

_He looked up as his mother lightly touched the back of his hand._

_"Yes,_ Ko'mekh _?"_

_"I'm going to give you Hill House."_

_He blinked, confused._

_"Mother, that house has been in your family for five generations."_

_She laughed, reaching out to pour the tea, "Well, I'm hardly giving it to a stranger, am I?"_

_"That is not the issue. . ." he took the cup of tea she had poured for him._

_"Then what is?"_

_"It is unknown if I will ever produce offspring, and the house deserves -"_

_"Someone to live in it? Yes, you're right. So please live in it, Spock."_

_"Mother. . ."_

_She sighed a little and finally gave a logical reason, "Besides," she said, with a slightly chiding voice, "Establishing residency goes much faster when you own property on Earth."_

_"Ah." That was certainly true, but. . . "I already have double citizenship - does that not mean my residency is already simple to establish?"_

_She shook her head and clucked her tongue._

_"Spock, Spock, my dear boy - Vulcans can refuse to accept you all they want, and all you will do is brood a little bit and blame yourself - but let one Human try to give you your proper inheritance, and all you can focus on is that you aren't married yet!" She paused, taking a sip of her drink, "Are you going to tell me that those terribly impersonal Academy dorms are to be preferred over a nice house, right there in San Francisco, which you used to visit when you were a child? Really, what could be better?" She smirked a little, "I talked to your Grandma Grayson about this three weeks ago - the papers have already been processed and formal ownership is already changed to your name." She grinned, "All you have to do is sign one document."_

_He looked down into the clear golden depths of the hot tea in his cup as she continued._

_"Vulcans may refuse to take care of one of their own, but this Human certainly isn't going to let - "_

_"They did not refuse me."_

_She stopped, confused._

_"What?"_

_"They accepted my application to the VSA."_

_She leaned forward, "But. . . then. . . why the long face,_ sa-fu _?"_

_"I refused to take it."_

_She sat back, stunned, both confusion and anger warring in her expression._

_"Please Spock. . . explain it to me," she covered her eyes with her hand, "I think I'm really too old for this. . ."_

_He told her, word for word, what had happened, watching as her expression changed from grim to amused, to shocked, to a curious mixture of them all._

_"So I must go to Earth," he concluded, "And I accept Hill House, mother. Thank you."_

_As she blinked, and acceptance dawned on her face, he wondered just how she would sum up the situation, what honest Human words could possibly express the day's events._

_She sighed, then smiled, her expression almost sly. "Well. . . shit."_

_In that moment, he came closer to breaking down in laughter than he ever had before._

* * *

The first thing he heard when disembarking onto Earth was the discordantly happy shrieks of two children whose returning mother had exited the shuttle directly behind him.

Their laughing flurry only distracted him for a moment, for in the crowd waiting just the beyond the landing zone, he saw and easily recognized Captain Christopher Pike, who had come to meet him.

Despite his insistence upon being called "Chris" in even a slightly informal situation, and his obvious love of anything sugar-filled or alcoholic - or both - Captain Pike had impressed Spock from the first moment they had met as a very intelligent and professional individual, dedicated to Starfleet, and an ideal mentor for a young half-alien who was, admittedly, probably going to be sadly out of his depth for a shameful length of time.

Chris was, beneath a proud, almost dismissive exterior, deeply and quietly patient. He had arranged and supervised Spock's entrance exam, and was now here voluntarily offering to introduce him to Starfleet life. This was clearly more than his stated pride in having recruited the first Vulcan that Starfleet Academy had ever had on its roster - Chris was also quite obviously determined to be his friend.

"It's pretty awesome, the way you're carrying on your family's traditions and all," he said, over a highly acceptable dinner of Indian food, "You're all rebels with a cause, I guess. . ."

Spock asked him what exactly he meant, and the answer had surprised him.

"Well, T'Pau's your matriarch and she refused a Federation Council seat, and Ambassador Sarek not only managed to be the first Vulcan ambassador to Earth that got along with us Terrans, he also married one. And isn't the historical grand-high-what's-his-face of Vulcan your ancestor or something? Then there's you - the first Vulcan at Starfleet Academy. Who chose us over the VSA, to boot." Chris had grinned and gestured with his spoon, "I think that being revolutionary just runs in your family."

Spock conceded the point, but asked just how Chris had known about his refusal of the VSA. He had told only a very few, and Vulcans were not known for their excessive talkativeness.

Chris' smile did not waver, "News travels fast." Then he winked. "You're something of a celebrity over here, you know."

He assured him he had not known.

Chris shrugged, then offered him a room at his house for the night, if he needed it.

He refused as courteously as he knew how to do, explaining that he not only had a house here already, he would need to go to the Vulcan Embassy very early in the morning, and did not wish to disturb Chris' schedule.

The older man shrugged again, saying lightly, "Well, it's there if you ever need it, buddy."

Spock did not know precisely what to say to that.

Chris had brushed on to another topic, however, offering to take him "out on the town" if he wanted to see some of the "night life" before the rigorous schedule of the Academy "ate his life". He also hinted that finding "temporary companionship" would be fairly easy if he "felt like unwinding". Spock tuned out the unfamiliar phrases, thinking on Christopher's offer of lodging.

It was strange. . .

Every person he had spoken to within the last two weeks who had any power over his future - Veshon, Amanda, T'Pring, his father, and now Chris - had also offered him a place to live, or be, or learn.

Odd.

He thanked Chris, but refused, paid the bill, and took a public hoverbus to the picturesque hills of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood.

The sun was just setting as he reached the door of Hill House. . .

* * *

_His father walked into his room without knocking._

_He had been deeply involved in editing a draft of the introduction to his book, but his father's presence made further work impossible for the moment._

_Yet Sarek did not speak. He stood there, either unwilling or unable to say what it was he had come to say._

_Spock, unused to such indecision from his father, could only tolerate the silence for a mere minute. When he turned to face him, his voice was much sharper than he had intended._

_"Do you wish to speak to me, father?"_

_He met his son's gaze, but his expression was so blank that Spock was certain it concealed some soul-rending emotion._

_Sarek nodded. "I fear. . . I do not know. . . how to begin."_

_Spock's jaw involuntarily clenched, "Are you here to dissuade me from attending Starfleet?"_

_"No."_

_"Do you intend to reprimand me for my behavior at the Council three days ago?"_

_"No. . . not as such."_

_"Then, I fear I do not know what you wish to discuss. . ."_

_"I wish to know why you applied to Starfleet."_

_His father had rushed the sentence. Yes, he felt deeply about this subject._

_Spock wondered why._

_"I gave my reason at the Council. It was logical to cultivate options - and given that I never expected to be accepted to the VSA, Starfleet was the next obvious choice."_

_His father's face went slack around the eyes. He was either shocked or disappointed. Or both._

_"Did you not trust that I would stand up for you in this matter?"_

_Spock blew through his nose, "Your good opinion of me has never been my assurance of success."_

_"And yet, I battled for you."_

_"Yes."_

_"And you offered them insult."_

_"After they offered me the Death Challenge!" He did not hide his indignation._

_Sarek shook his head, "I do not refer to Veshon's personal actions."_

_Spock did not try to conceal his confused expression._

_"They accepted you," explained his father, "And then you thanked them, Spock. Thanked them. One does not thank logic."_

_Spock sighed, "I am not convinced my acceptance was a logical decision."_

_Sarek's jaw clenched slightly, "Most were in favor of it."_

_"Before or after you debated my emotional and genetic makeup?"_

_"That is irrelevant."_

_"No, it is not, father." For one long second, Spock debated what he was about to say. "We are becoming a stagnant, isolationist race, and I believe you know it. There is not one amongst the Council - and very few amongst the Clan Elders, who believes that your marriage to my mother - and by extension my very existence - is a right thing." He stood, slowly, facing his father from an equal height, "I am prepared to believe that many accept it as a settled thing - but how many of our people do you know, father, who have openly engaged in personal relationships of any kind with Humans? How many Vulcans can call a Human a friend?"_

_"I assure you there are many."_

_"Perhaps - and how many do we hear of?_

_His father nodded, conceding the point._

_"Father, how many of the Council, do you think, accepted my application because they were afraid of you?"_

_A small flash of anger showed in his father's eyes, "None!" he snapped, "I will not believe them capable of such illogic."_

_"And was it logical to single me out for inspection? No prospective student has been called before the Council as I was, father."_

_"You are a special case. It was logical to - "_

_"Exactly, father!" Spock let a small measure of his own anger show, "In my case, it is logical for others to act illogically towards me - but if I reciprocate, or act so of my own necessity, it is not only inappropriate, it is my fault!" He inhaled, getting a firmer grip on his emotions, "I have become convinced that Vulcan is not my place."_

_"Yet, you are Vulcan."_

_"You would have me deny the very existence of those parts of me that come from my mother?"_

_"I would have you master them."_

_"Perhaps the only way to do so is to leave."_

_Sarek's hands fell to his sides, "You made this decision based on promptings from your Human heritage?"_

_Spock shrugged, very slightly, "When have you last been able to deny my mother something she wanted? What is in me that I inherited from her is equally vehement."_

_Surprisingly, his father seemed to seriously consider that. "So," he said, finally, "You do want to go to Starfleet."_

_"I want what is best for all concerned. Given the situation, my removal to Earth for at least four years is not not only desirable, but also logical."_

_"You would give up your residency on Vulcan?"_

_"It is necessary. Students must reside on the planet whereon the school. . ."_

_His father interrupted, suddenly exasperated, "And by doing so, you would renounce your most ancient title?"_

_Spock sighed, "There are others, father. . . many others. . . who can, and would take it up. . ."_

_"No." Sarek's voice held an immovable quality._

_"Things have not been easy in the Clan, there has not been peace, since I was born. For a half-Human to take Surak's title. . . how can we expect them to accept it?"_

_"Simply by expecting them to do so. Unquestioningly."_

_Spock stood up straighter, holding his arms behind his back, "I still mean to go."_

_"Yes." Sarek's mouth twisted with a sort of irony, "But renouncing the Title is not your decision to make."_

_Spock blinked, "You have spoken to T'Pau?"_

_"Yes."_

_His father removed a data chip from his pocket, placing it on the nearby desk. "Here is an official requisition order for rooms at the Embassy. A full suite, including a kitchen and access to the Embassy garden. Enough for. . . residence."_

_All at once, Spock understood. "The Embassy is, by legal definition, Vulcan soil. . ."_

_"Yes."_

_Spock reached out to pick up the data chip, "Why. . .? How. . . ?"_

_He saw amusement flash in his father's eyes, "T'Pau decided that none but you would satisfy her qualifications for Scion of Surak. The rooms are in your name. You may live in them or not - owning them is enough."_

_Suddenly, Spock felt a pang of remorse. If it were possible, he would ask his father to fully endorse this removal to Earth, would beg for his approval of his youthful, and admittedly somewhat rash choices in this matter. But, he knew that was something his father would not, could not, and perhaps ought not give._

_The choice was made, and now it was out of both their hands._

_As his father turned to go, Sarek made a gesture he had clearly not meant Spock to see._

_He had almost reached out to embrace him, as a Human father would have done._

_Instead, neither of them said a word as Sarek walked out of his son's room._

_Spock looked out the window, completely unable to return to his writing._

* * *

Hill House had a small but comfortable back yard. His mother's mother had enjoyed sitting outdoors when she had lived here, and several of the reclining seats were still present.

Spock leaned back in one, staring up at stars that, while not wholly unfamiliar to him, were nonetheless not the pattern of stars that usually gave him peace.

_Hello darkness. . . my old friend. . ._

There was a strange feeling that had settled subtly around his heart the minute he had entered this place.

He must identify it, work though it - control it.

There was only one way he knew to discover something about himself.

_I've come to talk with you again._

These stars were not of the patterns he was used to, but they still enhanced his meditations

He worked through a few breathing exercises, trying to accustom himself to the scent of grass and not of sand.

Yes, everything was different now.

Strange. . .

That feeling, back behind his heart, was suspiciously like the feeling he always had when returning safely home. . .

The stars sparkled knowingly at him, like they had figured _that_ out ages ago. . .

Perhaps they had.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_**Tsek-var**_ \- Any column, either structural or decorative, that has been inscribed with one or more accounts of an event or a series of events, either true or fictitious.

 _Sa-kugalsu_ \- Fiance; a man to whom a woman is engaged to be married


	10. Chapter Nine

**Warning** \- Spoilers for TNG episode; Gambit, and mild spoilers for Star Trek III - The Search For Spock

* * *

_"In sleep he sang to me,_   
_In dreams he came,_   
_That voice which calls to me,  
And speaks my name."_

_\- From "Phantom of the Opera"_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_Long, delicate fingers moved from her face and raked through her hair, ending up on her lower back and pulling her body towards his warmer body. It was dark, and there were only the sensations of touch and smell. His scent was male, he felt young, and he proceeded to kiss her like his previous caress was a promise and not a demand. She eagerly absorbed every touch, not protesting when their actions became. . ._

_Her bones were burning, even as a wind like knives of ice chilled her flesh into stinging numbness and drew unwilling tears from her eyes. She clawed her way up a slope of hard pebbles of volcanic stone - rough and slicing, unstable and dangerous. She seemed to be making no headway, but she could not tell, for she could not see, could barely feel, and her blood rushed in her ears even as it seeped from a myriad of cuts on her hands and feet. Suddenly she hit wall of cobalt stone, cold and smooth and hard, and she beat against it with bloody fists, her bones bursting into white flames as. . ._

_Soft lips were exploring her face, and a warm hand rested gently on her hip. The light was low, and eerie green, making the skin of her lover seem soaked in blood. Strange plants grew all about them, their leaves oddly barbed, their blossoms sickly white. They breathed forth a fog of seduction and oblivion. The light came from the blooming flowers, and a rich scent of cinnamon swirled about in the haze they made. The one of her lover's hands not curled around her hip reached out and plucked a stem of the unknown herbs, his mouth still delicately exploring her ears and jawline. Without warning she felt a sharp sting above her left breast as the barb from one leaf dug into her skin. A line of blood trickled down her side and soaked into the soil beneath her. She cried out and. . ._

_She was smothered in a hot, thick blanket of stinking wool, the threads of which kept clogging her nose and blocking her mouth. She would have screamed but for the need to breathe. She twisted back and forth, but it held her like a straightjacket. Her mind screamed as her mouth could not, the terror of entrapment blotting all else from her consciousness. All air was denied her and she fell into blackness when. . ._

_Her belly was heavy with a child. She stood barefoot on the cold sands of early morning. The outlines of two standing stones like those that marked all entrances to places of marriage were before her. The rushing, whishing sound of tiny bells rolled towards her like a wave of the sea under the force of the tide. A figure appeared between the standing stones, tall, and dressed in robes, his silhouette sharp and pure and Vulcan against the violent gold of the dawn. He reached down, like a god to a supplicant, and put his hand on her stomach. The life within stirred and kicked in response to. . ._

_Two sets of fingernails embedded themselves in her arms. Dark mumbled words begged their desperate plea into the skin of her neck. The stifling, enclosing heat of the tapestry-hung bed was as nothing to the flame of skin and teeth and need that took her mouth without waiting for her to answer his appeal. A roaring sound came towards them, not of wind, nor of voices, nor of blood, but of water, full of salt and frigid in its terror. It slammed over them, drowning the heat in a flood of thoughtless, formless cold. The body of flame that had needed her was torn from her presence, and a scream of despair - from him or from her she was not able to tell - filled the room as the water flowed away as if it had never been. A keening wind touched the back of her neck, snapping her head sideways at an unnatural angle. . ._

_Arms circled her from behind, slipping beneath her loose fitting tunic and caressing the soft rise of her stomach, while echoes of some far away thoughts sparked from his fingertips. He carried her backwards, resting her on the firm cushion of his body as he lay down, his breath making all of her tingle as it touched the tip of one of her ears. He did not speak, but his arm came up, and pointing to the stars, traced new patterns into the glittering tapestry of space. She could feel him breathing, could feel his heart beating, could hear the faintest whispering of his thoughts. She turned over, trying to see his face. . ._

T'Pring opened her eyes, and the phantoms finally fled.

It was both a relief and a disappointment.

She wanted to hate Spock for being right, but it was difficult when her Times were finally bearable.

She groggily slapped at the button which would summon a robot cleaning detail to her room, and dragged herself half-stumbling to the refresher unit, ordering the water shower on as hot as was safe for it to be.

It had taken three cycles for the Fever to even out. The first time had been a mere two weeks after he had left. That night she had carelessly neglected to lock the door to her rooms, and though she did not remember the incident, her father had told her later that she had needed to be wrested bodily away from the controls of the family's warp capable shuttle. Clearly she had been fiercely determined to go to Spock, whatever the consequences would have been.

After that, the physical side of the Fever began to diminish, being subsumed and integrated into the mental and spiritual aspects. The clawing need, the desperate outreaching of primal lust that she had only once truly experienced, had gradually been fully incorporated into the cycle of dreaming. Now, her fourth cycle since he had left, the nature of her Fever had changed entirely. Instead of only being an expression of pure rage, mortal fear, or base desire, now it was tempered with thoughts and images and feelings that clearly came from him.

When she awoke each time, she smelled like him, though he was light-years away. She had realized after that one time, when he had legitimately covered her in his scent, that she had _always_ smelled like him after. . .

Well, after.

She lathered her hair with a juniper-scented soap, letting the sharp smell of it cover the male pheromones she could still detect clinging to her skin.

What he thought about the situation she could not tell, but if the content of the dreams were any indication, he was most likely not entirely pleased, but it was at least clear that he had not yet found anyone else. . .

A twinge of the after-pains gripped her, and she leant on the cool tile wall for comfort. The smooth serenity of the surface made her still-addled mind long to reach out.

_Sa-kugalsu?_

But the bond was closed, as it always was, after. . .

Well. After.

Then she bent, and washed away the still oozing physical signs that she had just spent days in Blood Fever, not daring to admit to herself that in fact she was trying to clear her mind of the remnants of his presence.

The water turned jade-green as it flowed away down the drain. . . she closed her eyes to it and turned her face into the pelting stream of near-scalding water that came from the showerhead.

She might very well need him twice a year - might very well draw his mind to hers and demand rescue from a thing which, normally, was a mere inconvenience to a woman of her race - but that was no reason for her to desire her current situation, or find it at all fulfilling.

Instead of the meaningful Time every Vulcan longed for, this was now what she had to bear - dreams and shadows with no good purpose.

She stepped out of the shower, absently wrapping a towel around herself, breathing in the warm mist still hanging in the room. Her Time always left her malnourished, dehydrated, and mentally exhausted. As it would do to anyone, of course, but, in truth, she felt the absence of any appreciable physical exertion. She sullenly drew a brush though her hair, indulging herself in admittedly juvenile petulance. No one understood, and there was no one to talk to. Even her father, compassionate as he could be, had never had to face the difficulty she was facing. Her stomach growled hungrily, but she sighed, as though it too had betrayed her. It was especially difficult to be philosophical when she still had to face the specter of insanity or death twice a year, without having the outward signs of physical difficulty to point to or complain about. . . or even boast of, come to that.

She resolutely did _not_ think about the one time he had left a mark on her.

Even if she found someone to speak to on the matter, it would be near impossible to make them understand. Mental illnesses were simply not regarded as burdensome among a race that had, to all appearances, evolved beyond mental disorders of any kind. And _kolinahr_ was the _obvious_ option to the few aberrations that remained, she thought sarcastically, then sighed, wishing her father's father had not wanted to become a c'thia master _,_ and that he had never personally proved that one with their hereditary proclivities _might_ go insane without attempting _kolinahr_ , but would, certainly and absolutely, go insane if they did. She wandered back into her rooms, having to will herself not to flop lazily into the freshly made bed.

There was only one rule regarding finding a choice-mate that was strictly adhered to - both members of the previous relationship must find their choice before the bond could be dissolved.

She curled up on a cushioned wicker lounge, pressing her fingertips to the ridge of bone that ran beneath her eyebrows. Her eyes drifted closed, but she snapped them open almost immediately, as the image of his face when he had offered her the freedom to choose seemed even yet to be burned onto her retinas.

Two years, and still it was Spock. . . always Spock.

She feared that even if she ever did find a choice-mate, the only face she would ever see when she closed her eyes would be his.

She wanted to hate him for that.

But she wasn't sure she did.

Her. . . it could only be called an _obsession_ , and his. . . _possession_ \- could it be called possession if he did not wish to possess her? - well. . . put together they were quite simply the closest thing she had to a lifelong friend. An emotional constant, in the midst of infuriatingly confusing heights and lows.

And somewhere, locked away deep in her mind so she did not have to look at it, was the the conviction that she could not bear it if he ever did find someone else.

 _Is this what_ shan'hal'lak _is like?_

If so, then she understood why it was a far more feared phenomenon than the _plak-tau_.

There was a traditional, social, historical. . . _And acceptable_. . . method to deal with the Blood Fever.

There was nothing one could do with _shan'hal'lak_. It simply _was_.

This bond, this feeling - this obsession - was like that. It simply, resolutely, was.

She hated it, wanted to throw it away. But she could not.

_I must control myself._

She must not let this spiral of illogic overwhelm her. She could not afford to slip back into dreams. She had done so once - two Times ago. He had still been there for her, and had brought her out of it safely, but there was something. . . something this Time had made her forget. . .

Suddenly she sat bolt upright.

"Computer - date and time?"

Her voice was thick and harsh from disuse over the last few days. . . and she did not know _how many_ days. . .

"Stardate: 2252.38," said the impassive computerized voice, "Vulcan month: not applicable. Day of the week: not applicable. Local time: 09 - "

"Cancel," she clipped out, then jumped to her feet. Today was _Gad'r'tas_ and the _Yehvaru't'halovaya_ would begin within three hours.

She bit back a most unladylike curse.

It had been two-hundred and sixteen years since her father's clan had had its turn to lead the ritual of the Fabled Journey, and if she did not dress _immediately_ , she would be late.

The necessary unbleached-cotton gown, utterly plain except for its great drooping hood, and long, flowing sleeves, had been commissioned weeks beforehand, and was hanging in her wardrobe.

As nimbly as possible, she tied herself into one of the fine handmade corsets her mother still sent her from the workshops at Gol, slipped into a set of plain, new sandals that had never been worn before, settled the dress over herself, and finally wound a girdle of knotted cords in the colors of her father's Clan around her waist. Then, she reached into a drawer, withdrew three small linen pouches, and quickly tucked their drawstrings into the cords at her hip. She swiftly arranged her still damp hair into a simple chignon, then covered her head with the ample hood of raw, coarse cotton, and she was ready.

And not a moment too soon, for as she emerged into the common areas of the house, she saw over two dozen members of the clan congregated in the Meeting Hall.

The sound of their conversation came in waves from the open doors. It was a low hum that flowed up and down in the broad, simple patterns of common language. It was a familiar, warm seeming thing that would be considered pleasant by most, _should_ be, but to her, it seemed more like the rising and falling of the earth before it cracked and the lava flowed. It may well be pleasant to see, but she would far prefer to avoid close proximity to it.

She paused, resettling the girdle across her waist, making sure the pouches were secure at her hip. If they had to see her, they would see her proper and prepared. She took a deep breath, and entered the room.

It was not as bad as she feared it would be. In truth, it never was, but the patterns of her mind never seemed to let her remember that _before_ she was compelled to appear publicly.

Several members of her family greeted her, and then a servant offered her a drink. It was the traditional _naric_ juice with the pulp of _sash-savas_ mixed through it; the usually homemade festive drink that preceded most Vulcan ceremonies. It was the first nourishment she had taken in four days. Fortunately, she remembered in time to say the few customary words in toast to the occasion before she swiftly drained the glass. Then she handed it peremptorily back to the servant who had offered it to her, and requested another one. She spoke briefly to another servant, and a minute later he surreptitiously brought her a large piece of bread. Ordinarily, the taking of any solid food would be postponed until the ceremony was finished, and they all could participate in a communal feast, but the ritual of _Yehvaru't'halovaya_ involved climbing a mountain, and she was uncertain if she could do so in her current state.

Before she faded into a corner to eat, for one moment she caught her father's glance; the care he always showed her gleaming from his eyes. She nodded infinitesimally, and he nodded back, acknowledging her presence as the sacrifice it truly was for her.

 _Gad'r'tas_ only came once every twelve years, and with eighteen High Clans serving in rotation for the celebratory Journey, it was an event no one would believe you would want to miss. And yet she did, most heartily. The yearly Festival of Surak was long and involved enough without re-creating his climb up Mount Seleya, no matter how infrequently. Whatever deeper meaning there was to be wrung from adding such a service to the two weeks of solemn remembrance was almost entirely lost to the general populace, and even among the High Clans it only really meant something to a few.

In truth it was only the Reldai who _lived_ the principals of the ritual, and so it was only they who honestly _needed_ it.

And she, manifestly, did _not_ need to be reminded of the life she had chosen but could not have.

The bread, large though the piece had been, was not enough. She slipped into the kitchens and took some pickled _cir-cenchakh_ , eating it swiftly with a few savory _kreyla_ biscuits.

She briefly wondered if she would have seen the Journey differently if she had been from S'chn T'gai. They were not in the rotation of clans assigned to the ritual, for they had the distinction of being the only clan allowed to approach the Mountain at any time. The Heirs to Surak could not lawfully be kept away from such a place. Could the _accessibility_ of the climb change the meaning? She wondered if Spock had ever. . .

_Curse it. . ._

She did not need to be reminded of the _second_ life she had chosen, but could not have.

Her father's voice called her away, and she tried to stop thinking entirely during the ride to the Mountain. Unsuccessfully, but she felt somewhat better for trying. She was so tired, and only just awakened from her Time. . .

_I am an infinitesimally small speck in an infinitely large universe._

Somehow the thought was comforting.

She closed her eyes, not feeling the gentle swaying of the hovercraft as it sped along the Shi'Val Flats and up into the Mountains of Gol. The sharp, ragged outline of the _Seleya'kun-el_ would not be visible for some time, but she had seen it before, when her mother had performed the duties of High Priestess at the Temple On The Mountain. Her memories of it, of all her childhood remembrances, were still the most difficult ones to separate from her instinctive identity.

The Seleya Peaks were impressive, even among the bleak ruggedness of the mountains that were the Gollic Range. A wide and lofty plateau surrounded the Sacred Mountain, which was itself merely a collection of red granite spikes thrust up from the heart of the world. Of itself it was not tall - for a mountain, of course - but its position atop the high flatlands afforded it nearly the altitude of the Nal-shin Range away up North - Vulcan's tallest range of mountains. But its height was no matter - the Vulcan people had revered the place since long before they had even learned to stand upon two legs, and would continue to do so long into the future, regardless of comparative altitude. It housed their most solemn Temple, and their most precious possession, the Katric Ark. It was a place of legends, living and dead.

It stood alone, surrounded, yet remote, the spires of dark red stone stabbing blade-like into the sky, defiant and indomitable.

In truth, the whole place frightened her.

She wondered if that was why she loved it so fiercely.

Her father called her name, softly. She opened her eyes and stepped lightly out of the hovercraft.

They had arrived.

The wind blew past the suddenly small-looking group of palely-clad Vulcans, the strange mists and the cold, pricking air of the desolate heights swirling around the lowered hoods and long sleeves of their ceremonial garments.

T'Pring took a step, her new sandals crunching upon the hard pebbles of the plateau. They were still far out from the Mountain, but not ten paces away were the two black boulders that marked the beginning of The Path - the narrow paved track that led all the way to the Feet Of Seleya.

It was here the ceremony began.

_I forgot to bring a knife. . ._

But her father had remembered, unfolding a pocketknife and stepping forward to the Clan Matriarch, T'Pilah. He knelt before the elder woman, using the short, sharp blade to notch the edges of her trailing sleeves. Then her father went to his wife, T'Vala, and next, to T'Pring herself, performing the service to each of them in turn.

It ought to have been her, as Heir, doing this part, but as her father knelt before her, his eyes met hers in an indefinable sort of look; the kind of look he always gave her when he understood something about her that she did not know how to explain.

Then he stood, and presented the handle of the knife to her, gesturing for her to finish the process.

She sent him a thankful look, and proceeded to notch the sleeves of everyone who was left, including her father, last of all. Of course, if the Katra Of Surak chose to inhabit one of them, they would not need to tear their clothes at the end of the ceremony, but it was always best to be prepared.

_Even for those things for which one can never be adequately prepared._

She closed the knife and handed it back to her father, and as he took it, he spoke the ritual words that began the Journey.

"Though grief and violence have led us here, we begin, inexorably, upon The Path Of Peace."

Then he and T'Pilah began the long walk down the unnaturally smooth, arrow-straight road across the cracked and tortured landscape, the rest of the party stringing themselves out in two parallel lines behind them.

T'Pring brought her hands together, slipping them safely beneath her sleeves, and raising her eyes to watch the blurred outline of the Mountain become gradually sharper and sharper through the misty air as it drew closer and closer. _This_ was when she ought to think; about history, or the legends which they were re-enacting today, or the principals of their society that had resulted from them, or even about how the obvious symbolism of this ceremony still applied to her even though she had chosen a different way of life than that of Gol. . . but now, when she knew she ought to focus, her mind buzzed only with the static of brief, conflicting images, and uncontrolled emotions that were as blurred as the still distant outline of the Holy Mountain.

The trek to the rounded, obsidian-stone hill called the Feet Of Seleya took nearly an hour. It felt both longer and shorter. By the time they had reached it, T'Pring felt as if she were existing outside of time - for this event, it mattered not if she were T'Pring, daughter of T'Sai of the Reldai, or Heir of Tarka son of Tassus, or a nameless, ancient acolyte of some long-forgotten race - for now, it was now, and that was all that mattered.

It would be many years before she realized the significance, but as she looked up at the towering, spellbinding spires of the Mountain, sharply clear at last against the misty purple-grey sky, for a moment it was as if her self was stripped away, and there was no need for anything other than her acceptance.

The thin, diffuse sunlight still gleamed from the shards of black glass that littered the end of the Path. The group all spread out, carefully avoiding the larger, more dangerous pieces, and stepping lightly so as to keep the smaller flakes from invading their sandals.

At the Feet, her father stepped forward again, leading the group to the rightmost of the two rough-cut staircases that began on either side of the glassy hill, each leading up an opposite side of the Mountain.

The left-hand stair, she knew, led to the Temple On The Mountain and the Pillars of Fate, where, according to her mother, it was possible to re-unite a _katra_ and its body, provided of course that both had been properly salvaged. When T'Pring had been a child, she used to look at the stone biers by the Pillars, and wonder if she would ever have need of them.

She felt so unlike herself today, she wondered if she ought not to climb those stairs instead.

But again her father raised his voice, so everyone could hear, and he spoke the _Va'hak't'shen_ , the Song Of Ascent.

"We have Come,

Where the Beginnings are.

The Ancients wait,

In clouds of Time and Trial.

Climb the Steps,

The Steps of Mount Seleya."

Then he took his place beside T'Pilah again, and began walking slowly up the right-hand stair, which led to things that, until now, T'Pring had only seen in pictures, and heard of only in legends.

Of course, the myth said that Surak had climbed the Mountain in one day, carving the path to the Cave Of The Ark with naught but his bare hands, pausing five times at the appropriate hours of the day to not only meditate, but to set up the Stones Of The Stairs as well. An apocryphal story, to say the least - the majority of the surface of the Mountain was a hard _zasuhl-sbah_ , with minimal topsoil, and the incline was steep enough for the stairs that were cut into it to be almost necessary for an ascent of any kind - and the Stones of the Stairs were each at _least_ a _rasath-shek-tukh_ \- though most were more than a Terran tonne. It was far more likely that the Steps had been cut long before Surak, and the Stones had been placed by followers of Oekon. It was clearly documented that these were five special crystals, each the focus of the five large cleared areas evenly spaced up the Mountain, and each such Stone corresponding not only to a specific legend, but to the seasonal rising of a certain star, be it Nevasa itself, or _Lanka-gar'ukh_ , or stars which they now knew were not stars, but other planets that shared the cosmos with them.

But, like everything, the Stones, and indeed the whole Mountain, was now dedicated to Surak; their original names, histories and purpose rendered moot by the tide of Logic.

It did not take long for the party to reach the first landing - The Place Of The Stone Of Alem - and they all clustered close together so they all fit, for the first landing was, unexpectedly, quite small.

She had managed to stay close to her father's position, and so she was able to look over at the first Stone. It was set near the wall of the Mountain, a cloudy, lumpen thing, of whitish grey, its crystalline structure obvious, but far from beautiful. Its height was nearly that of a man.

_The pillar of salt. . ._

She had read an ancient Human holy book once. There was a story in it where fire and brimstone had rained from the sky, and the only woman brave enough to look at them had been turned to a pillar of salt.

She preferred her own people's legends. . .

This Stone, supposedly, was a tear from Oekon, one of many which he had shed when he saw the turmoil of his beloved Vulcan people. When the sun was high on that Day of Midwinter, a great stream of his tears had fallen from the sky and splashed all over the world, some making the salt flats, some soaking into the ground, and some making the ocean. This was the only one that remained whole, to remind them all of the event.

It was all illogical, of course.

But, she found it oddly compelling, nonetheless.

Everyone else, ready for the modern ceremony, reached for the three pouches they were all wearing, and she quickly followed suit.

The first pouch also contained salt, but pure, and crushed into fine dust. The second and third contained _lhm'ta_ leaf and _k'rhth'a_ bark, both also beaten into powder.

In all of their ancient stories, salt had played an important role somewhere, hence, there were almost as many meanings for it as there were situations for it to be used. But here, with the Offering on the Journey, it was meant to represent the harsh, stinging reality of their planet, and the forging each soul must endure to remain upon it. And used in concert with the other two herbs. . .

Well. It was an appropriate Offering for the ritual. Or would have been if the original Legends had still played any part.

T'Pring grit her teeth. Only the Reldai lived by pure logic, thus only they would find the current ceremony helpful. _Why_ , she wanted to yell, _Why, in this ritual, of all rituals, do we forget from where we came?_

After everyone had measured out a small amount from each pouch into their hands, T'Pilah raised her voice, and spoke.

"In the beginning, there was no peace.

Forces and chemicals warred for countless eons, as purely formless and emotionless fact."

The whole group answered her -

"It did not bring peace."

Then they scattered the offering, grinding it into the dirt with the toes of their sandals.

As they all turned and continued climbing, T'Pring considered where they were headed next, wondering if anyone else in the group was thinking about anything but the logical mantras of the ceremony.

The _Thas-kov_ , or Milkstone, had once been dedicated to T'Priah, goddess of fertility, and first wife of Oekon. One day, she had been feeding her son Khosaar, and he, being so violent, even as an infant, had spat the milk back at her. She had tried to catch the life-giving liquid, but it dripped from her hands, and formed the stars. Unwilling to lose any more, she had tried turning it to stone, but a few last specks had fallen to Vulcan, making a hard, tough stone that one day would be carved into the first bladed weapons larger than an arrowhead. Khosaar, angry that she had made something bright and good from his destruction, had then struck the stone in her hands. It flew apart, so fast that T'Priah could not catch all the pieces, and they streaked across the sky, trailing glowing tails behind them. But the goddess had caught the largest fragment, and placed it purposefully, giving everyone the bright evening star _Ek'tra-kanash'es_. It was so bright that if you stood near the white of a salt flats, you could see your shadow from it, wavering like a dream of the ancients.

It was still said that the first time you saw your starshadow, that year you could expect to conceive a child.

_Illogical superstition. . ._

And yet it was still tradition for a betrothed woman to spend at least one night before her wedding outside, sleeping in the open - and near to a saltplain, if possible. . .

_I wonder, if I were to sigh, would my frustration go unnoticed?_

In time they reached a second landing. It was much larger than the first, and they spread out around the rounded, oddly domed rock of smooth, opaque white _yar-kov_ that was set up in the middle of the clearing. It was not more than knee height, but it was at least nine meters in circumference. For what seemed like a long while, she stared at several narrow, curved troughs that had been carved out of the base of it, and suddenly realized that she was seeing the signs left by some ancient _senepa_ maker.

_From the Mother of Life came Khosaar, the God of War. . ._

One of her cousins, T'Velk, came forward and spoke.

"A war of light and dark, creation and destruction like unto an equilibrium. Tumult, working towards a center.

When the universe found its center, life began."

Again, they all answered with one voice -

"It did not bring peace."

For the second time, they scattered their offerings, and silently moved onward, further up the side of the Mountain.

She let her mind wander until they reached The Place Of The Stone Of Khaf.

This one was a ragged, glassy shard of jadeite, as clear and as green as the blood which gave it its name. It stood half again as tall as a man, slicing like a wedge down the center of the third, and very large landing. It gleamed dully in the light, but managed somehow to give the impression of being deadly sharp. The only part that had been smoothed and carved was halfway up the side that faced the Mountain, and it also involved Khosaar, this time as a full grown god, terrifying in his sheer power. The bas relief was small, but exquisitely well done, showing the Warrior in the very act of slaying ten thousand men, all so he might earn the hand of a mortal woman. . .

Her name had also been T'Pring.

Perhaps _that_ was why she had always found the legends of the Journey to be so much more compelling than the Journey itself.

For a moment the sight of the young god before her was replaced with the image of Spock, fighting, his armor rent by his challenger's blade, his own weapon smeared with the green ichor of whomever dared to stand between him and. . .

The vision faded, leaving her cold, tired, and alone. She shivered as they arranged themselves before the Bloodstone.

Her uncle Vemik came forward and spoke.

"Chemically organic machines warred for dominance. The universe was a battle for meaningless life, between meaningless lifeforms, and then purposeless death.

When life found a meaning, then came intelligence."

They all said again -

"It did not bring peace."

Everyone else continued climbing then, but T'Pring lingered for a moment, grinding her Offering thoroughly into the ground. She could not conceal her reluctance to move on to the next landing.

It was her turn to speak next, at the Stone she least desired to think upon.

The Stone of Gol was a chunk of black granite, crudely carved into a life-size form of the goddess Reah. T'Pring had seen the pictures, heard the legends, and she had very little desire to meet the haunting reality. The roughly formed hands would be reaching outward in pain and supplication, the eyes would be sightless and pitiless, and there would be a great void in the side - like the goddess's heart had been torn from her with a brutal hand. In this case, however, that void was where a great Vulcan warrior, his name lost to history, had prized from the hard rock another, smaller crystal. From that unique piece, he had built the most deadly weapon ever recorded, using it to kill thousands with only a thought. But he had been killed himself soon after, by another who wished to obtain it. Then that one also killed many, and was killed himself, and the next usurper killed thousands more with a mere thought, until he too was killed. And the cycle had gone on, until the weapon had at last been broken, the pieces scattered, and only the story remained.

Then the great stone that had first held the fearsome thing had been carved into the likeness of the Goddess of Death, her hands reaching out, so that during the shortest night of Midsummer, for a moment she seemed to hold _Kal-a'pton_ \- the Planet of the Cursed, as it hung low in the sky.

_The Gift of Killing is truly both our greatest gift, and our most horrid failing._

Slowly, T'Pring walked up the Steps to the fourth landing.

When she got there, they all were waiting for her, including Reah, standing closer to the edge of the precipice than any preceding Stone, her arms stretched out towards the desolate wastes of the plateau.

T'Pring resolutely did not look at her.

As quickly as was still civilized, she measured out the Offering for this Stone, stepped forward, took a deep breath, and spoke the words.

"All those who had intelligence gained knowledge, and with it, power. Then came wars of thought, of thinking, of knowing or wishing to know.

When minds learned to feel, there came emotion."

Nearly thirty members of her family answered her -

"It did not bring peace."

They scattered the Offering, and then they all flowed upwards to the last landing, and The Serene Stone.

With a small sigh of relief, T'Pring followed them.

This last climb was the longest, and the steepest, and would only end at the Cave Of The Ark.

She had heard it said that Surak had found the Serene Stone in that very cave the first time he had entered it, and at the same time he had discovered the perfect crystalline cubes that could contain a _katra_ after the death of the body. He had come to the cave, looking only for peace, and had found these strange stone boxes, arranged perfectly around an impossibly beautiful pillar of clear blue stone. Then he had touched a few of the cubes, the story went, and found that he could hear the thoughts and feel the lifeforce of ancestors thought long dead. Again, it was all apocryphal, but pleasant to think upon. Surak, no doubt wearied from a climb made all the more difficult by his recent wounding in the Last War, had come, at last, to the Place On The Top Of The Mountain, the Cave Of Ancients, and the Place Of Peace. There he had discovered, not just a past that their people, in their turmoil, had forgotten, but also a future, and one so pure and ordered that Surak's own mind rejoiced in it, and he was able to bring it out of the dark, back to his people.

Wrapped in the assurance of the story, she did not have to lament the idea that, with the way things were in her life, _she_ might never emerge out of the dark.

Finally, she and her family ascended the last Step, and gathered around the last Stone.

The _Kov'mol-kom_ was the only cleanly faceted Stone, and the rarest, most incredible of them all. It was a massive, single, six-sided prism of _pla'kohv-tukh_ \- the very same crystal of blue quartz that it was said Surak had found in the Cave that now housed his _katra_. It was the only Stone that could lay a claim with any credence that Surak had himself placed it where it now stood, but discounting the notion that Surak had somehow had the power to move things with his mind, T'Pring did not believe he could have done so, certainly not without aid. Set somewhat into the ground for stability, it came to shoulder height. Even Kallin the Strong would have had difficulty lifting it.

The edges sparkled with sharp evenness, and the deep, rich blue vibrated shockingly against the dark red of the landscape even more than the green of the Bloodstone had done.

It was priceless, and quite thoroughly irreplaceable.

No, she decided, it would not matter how many times Spock had seen this - he would still be as strongly effected each time.

Her cousin Kamik came forward, reverently speaking the penultimate lines of the ceremony.

"Those who felt, reacted. Those who reacted, felt more. What was empty was now full. The battles turned inward, as a black hole, and there was no escape.

When emotion destroyed itself, then there came Logic."

And finally, they all answered -

"Logic brought peace."

They all fell silent. The rest of the ceremony was to take place without spoken words.

Then T'Pilah came forward, and pointed to eight of the assembled party. Heads bowed, hands hidden inside their sleeves, they followed her up the short, inclined path to the Cave.

T'Pring was glad she was not in the first group, as it gave her time to recover from the climb. The air was very thin, up this high, and the cold mists and creeping, keening winds were quite disturbing to a system that usually existed in the hottest of dry deserts.

This was not how she remembered the Temple On The Mountain - and rightly so, for that was on the lee side of Seleya, protected from the harsher winds by the wall of the Mountain itself. She recalled the still, dry air of the Temple, the cold reduced by the high stone wall that surrounded the Sanctuary, and the richly enameled coal braziers that were lit inside.

There were none of those trappings of civilization here. The Steps and the Stones did not speak of a sophisticated, peaceful race, but of a wild one, ruled not by reason, but by passion. Such an undertaking as cutting five long stairways into the side of a mountain, and then hoisting five enormous stones up them for no other reason than this - they had _wanted_ to - indicated no trace of the solemn, orderly rituals that took place at the Temple, but, at least to her, showed decisively the fervor, vehemence, and stubbornness of the Vulcan heart.

For a moment she turned her back on the Serene Stone, and looked out over the high plain down below. From this vantage, the lines and cracks, caves and canyons could be seen, for these flatlands were not flat like the salt-plains she saw every day - this was a great lava flow, back from when the planet was still forming itself into the shape they now knew. The mountains that had once closely surrounded Seleya had been cut in half, razed with a torrent of boiling rock that was no doubt aided by massive earthquakes, and the whole expanse had been sheared off at the waist, as though with a cruel, blunt sword. The debris and lava had bubbled and drained down the canyons, filling them with a maze of tunnels, and what had once been merely another part of a mountain range was now a vast pock-marked table-land.

Heaven only knew how Seleya had survived all of that.

She turned when she heard the flat patter of sandals returning from the Cave. T'Pilah and the eight whom she had chosen filtered slowly back together with rest of them. They all had their sleeves torn up to the elbow. T'Pring gave a very small sigh of relief. So the Katra had not chosen to move its Place. Of course, it had only been known to do so twice, and each time apparently in an effort to return to the Cave from which it had been taken - maliciously or otherwise - but regardless of history, the potential remained, and every soul that came before the Ark must be prepared for the possibility that they could receive the Katra. And if it did not happen. . . then that too must be acknowledged. In any other context, deliberately wearing torn clothes would signify grief, or unworthiness, but in this place, at this time, it was a sign of thankfulness, and of the devotion of the individual who had, for a moment at least, feared the greatness of the prospect.

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve for a moment, rolling the notched edge between her fingers, and hoping she would also have reason to use it.

Her father nodded at her, and she came forward once again, choosing her own eight companions, and leading them up the short but winding path to the Cave Of The Ark.

As they rounded the final turn, the pathway that had been narrow all the way up the Mountain, or at least enclosed, rimmed with boulders like all the Places of the Stones, it suddenly opened up onto a wide, windswept _sazasfek_. The peak stood before them; the Cave entrance a third of the way up its face was tiny, and forgettable when set against the sight of standing all at once upon the top of the world. The weird, dreamlike state that had encompassed her all day intensified. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to stand there forever, staring at the red stone, as it spiked against the purple sky. T'Pring forced her eyes down, trying not to scrape her feet against the suddenly far steeper incline. Nevertheless, she must lead her group towards that small, dark eye in the rockface.

The Door was barely large enough to admit one person at a time; she paused next to the doorpost, letting her companions enter in a slow single file as she waited and watched them, and intentionally took the position at the end of the line for herself.

For many paces the Cave was narrow, dank, oppressively close, and dark. The irrational fear of being trapped rose in her mouth; with difficulty, she forced it down. At last, the walls fell away, to the huge room hidden within the Peak of Seleya. She raised her head, and the air flowed more smoothly in her lungs. All around the edge of the room, colossal statues of the gods, the Seven Fathers, and First Mothers towered, all cut from the living rock. In the center of the room, a dais of many steps drew her eyes up, and up, until finally she saw all of the great image of Surak, his hands spread wide in welcome, his impassive face bathed in the natural light that streamed from the oculus in the dome of the cave.

With deliberate steps they climbed the dais, T'Pring alone taking note of the Arks of the Ancients set along the corners of it. Almost she broke rank to go to them, and search for her own House Father among the great names of old. She had never wished to commune with Tassus before, yet suddenly the desire overtook her. Anything, _anything_ but that infinite unknown soaring atop the dais. . .

At the feet of the great statue, there stood an almost insignificant-looking altar; a small stone table, backed by a low curved wall that connected two stone pillars - the pair of which flanked the final resting place of Surak.

Dwarfed by the colossus looming over it, the Katric Ark seemed a mere stone cube, upon a carved granite shelf, guarded by pillars rendered insignificant, though they held the marks of C'Thia and A'rie'mnu, twin children of Oekon.

Chaos and Mastery. And between them was Peace.

And the monumental eyes of the Ancients looked down with stony disapproval at the tiny mortals who had intruded on their silence. . .

Banishing her completely illogical anxiety - and attempting to still the almost painful trembling that had come with it - T'Pring joined the small circle the others had formed around the Ark, raising her hands so that they almost, but not quite, touched the hands of those on either side of her.

In her mind she spoke the mantras. . . _My mind to your mind. . . My thoughts to your thoughts. . ._

Suddenly she was one single current in a great gust of minds. All the people around her were present in her consciousness, flowing to the same goal, reaching out towards the Ark in a barely constrained whirlwind of thought.

Then came a shock of silence as their minds touched its surface. It absorbed any thoughts they might have projected, drawing them deeper into itself.

As their minds traveled within the Ark, it began to glow. The sharp, bluish-white radiance at first seemed small, but quickly grew, brightened, and reached up, reached out. Reached back to them. A cool breeze came from. . . somewhere. Long tendrils of ice-tinted fire erupted from the focal point of the brightness, snaking out, one to each Soul that stood before it.

Then, slowly, almost gently, a tendril wrapped around her hand, and the whirlwind became real. Surak was in her mind. Or she was in his, it was difficult to tell. . .

For a brief infinity she was frozen in time and space.

It was nothing like any other meld she had experienced. She was herself, but crowded out of her own existence, not by the turmoil of the other occupant, but by their peace. All her cares and worries were set at naught, all the wisdom of her experience was dismissed without the whisper of a thought. The pattern of her personality was. . . not accepted like it had been with other melds, not reduced as _kae'at k'lasa_ would have done, but. . . _incorporated_. . . into a huge blank wall of perspective, and then drawn through a boundless plain of clarity that left her, not broken, but transformed.

Never had she been so lost, while at the same time being so aware of every part of herself.

The cold blue light crackled around her like a force field, as the plain opened beneath her feet, the powder-white grains of sand flowing away down the abyss, all the more frightening for that it happened in complete silence. Something drew her down - into a dark, velvet black place, so empty that it made even outer space seem small. Her mind reached out, but there was nothing, nothing. . .

She cried out in horror.

And then, back behind the vastness, was a small warmth, flickering faithfully, like the light of a single _asenoi_.

Suddenly she was sitting in a small room, warm with the aftermath of the day, cool with the promise of night. The air was beautiful with the scents of clean stone, of fresh-cut reeds, and the sweet, enticing odors of roasted meat. She sat, wrapped in the soft skin of a _sehlat_ , her legs discreetly folded beneath it, and before her was a small bowl, filled with the pale yellow of clarified milk-oil. In it floated a lighted wick of braided _sha'amii_ wool, perfect in its simplicity.

The scene clutched at her heart, but she did not know why. She stared into the flame, asking the light for answers. It flickered along with her thoughts, then all at once it flared, reaching out with the same explosion of tendrils that the Ark had done, only warm this time, and somehow. . . small, not grand, or vast. It enveloped her, but this time she was not afraid. This light was perfectly controlled, measuring itself out into her with abundance, but without superfluity. It was as soft as the golden winter green of new grass, as rich as the late spring harvest of fruit, and it smelled of the precious springs of water found only in the most barren places.

In it lived everything that was care, joy, tenderness, passion. . . _love_. . .

It was even worse than the blank vastness had been.

She could never, _never_ be as great as that, as real, as good. . . as _perfect_. . .

She dropped her hands and bolted from the Cave, her sandals sliding, her eyes blinded with inexplicable tears. She did not see her family, nor the Stones, nor even the red of Seleya itself as she ran pell-mell down the Mountain.

All she could see was an ice-blue fire, flashing through Spock's eyes as he named her his _ko-kugalsu_ , and then a warm, gold-red flame, pouring from his mouth as he set her free. . .

Time was dilated - she knew not how long it took to escape Seleya, nor how far she had run along the Path before she left it, and she had no notion of why it had become so dark, so cold and confusing. She spun around, scraping her hands against rough walls, tripping over she knew not what obstacles.

Then something connected with her temple, and in the flash of pain she found just enough time to realize she was in one of the thousands of lava tunnels that seethed through the plateau of Seleya, and that she ought to be terrified of becoming lost forever, but then her exhaustion, terror and pain overwhelmed her, and her mind blanked, her legs collapsed, and she fell in a senseless heap.

* * *

_Tink. . . Tink. . . Tink. . ._

_The small sound echoed, not as it would through a large emptiness, but like a lone sound within a great silence._

_Deep. . . beneath. . ._

_She could sense a light, far away but growing closer. . . slowly. . . slowly. . ._

_There was a shuffling, and a dragging, and then the ground fell away. It was as if the whole planet rolled beneath her and. . ._

_Breathe. . . stop. . . breathe. . ._

_The thin wail of an infant reached out from a great distance._

_Shhhhhhh. . ._

_Hushhhhhhhh. . ._

_T'Paal. . ._

_The deep roll of stone against stone silenced all noises from the distance._

_Scrappp. . . tsshh . . . scrappp, scrappp. . . tsh. . . tsshhh. . ._

_Tink. . . Tink. . . Tink. . ._

_Ratttttt-tat-tat. . ._

_Plink. . ._

_Lost. . . lost. . . forever. . ._

* * *

The world took several eons to fully coalesce again.

At last, she opened her eyes.

She was definitely underground.

_And do I dream again?_

A muscle in her neck twitched, and an arc of pain jolted through her. She inhaled sharply, deciding not to move for the moment.

No, most of what she had heard _must_ have happened. She was not where she had fallen, she was sure.

Then, she blinked, and realized that she was not only underground, but she could _see_. There was a lantern nearby, and _sounds_. . . footsteps. . .

A shadow fell across her face, and a hand reached down to her. The backs of warm fingers lightly touched a very sore place on her head. A gentle coolness came from them, easing the pain, and she turned her head.

A visibly concerned face looked back at her.

" _Are you well, T'Saai?_ " the voice asked in heavily accented Old Golsu.

 _Ha'a. . . Heh rai._ She projected as strongly as she could, not yet trusting her mouth to speak.

She felt. . . him. . . yes, it was a him. . . receive her answer. He smiled at her through his fingers.

His hand moved to the back of her neck, supporting her as she slowly sat up. There was a short, strange sound, and then a flask of water was being put to her lips. She tried to sip - it quickly became a gulp.

_So thirsty. . ._

" _Tuun-boshi t'bolaua wai kah-if istau'be'aitlau, Ko-fu't Tahs'sus._ "

She spluttered, both in surprise and attempted obedience. _Careful. . . Daughter of Tassus_. It was very strange to hear familiar words spoken in such an ancient, little-used dialect.

With much effort, she took several long sips of the water, then managed to shift her body so that she was supporting herself.

He moved away, but did not leave.

" _And what has made such a Lady leave the High Place in the middle of the Great Ceremony, and come here for her hurts?_ " He was still speaking in Old Golsu, but it was clear he did not often do so.

Yet. . . the archaic words seemed to. . . _fit_ him. His motions were assured, his words carefully chosen. All in all he was strangely. . . precise.

She did not know why that should seem part and parcel with this eerie, dream-like day, but it did.

"How," she said, shakily, in Standard, "Why. . . do you speak so. . . to me?" She did not think he had touched her mind that deeply. . . she was sure he had not.

He smiled openly before checking himself. The slip was not odd, but rather. . . it was _true_. Yes, true to him.

" _And how else ought I to speak to one such, an Heir of her House?_ "

That was also true - Tassus was the only House Father who had been born in Gol, and H'kl Y'ner was the only one of his Clans that consistently taught its Heirs to speak his tongue.

"How do you. . . know. . . all this?" Her still spinning head could barely take in the fact of her location, much less the mental leaps of this unexpected young man.

"It would not take even the most casual student of deductive reasoning more than a minute to see that you are dressed for the Journey," he said, finally speaking Standard too, and gesturing at all of her, "And everyone knows the colors of the High Clans," He pointed at the girdle she still wore.

" _And you understand, me, do you not?_ " he added, once again in Old Golsu.

She nodded, " _But your accent is less-than-satisfactory. ._."

His mouth twitched in plain amusement - there was no word for "bad" in Old Golsu. "Add to this that your sleeves are whole," he continued, "And, well. . ." He took a sip of water, and the replaced the lid on the flask. "Logical."

She swallowed, suddenly remembering to be ashamed, "It. . . was too much. . ."

His nostrils flared, and he clicked his tongue, "Of course it was."

She looked at him, a curious expression imposing itself upon her face, partly incredulous and partly offended. How could he understand? Who was he? How _dare_ he presume. . .

With another openly wry twist of his mouth, he removed a short strip of cloth from his pocket and showed it to her.

It was one of the embroidered bracelets given to High Clan sons when they attended their first Water Ceremony. This one was stitched with bright red, the lightest of blues, and a brilliant metallic gold.

"You are of Ql'heksh Al'gath - of the House of Mat'ga. . ." she said quietly.

"Yes, third son of my mother." His voice was not hard or accusatory, but there was still something strange in it. He took back the bracelet, "Twelve years ago, it was our turn up the Mountain. . ."

"And?" She slowly stood, and shook the dust from her gown.

"And, that was enough to make me what I am today."

"Which is what?" she asked, blinking the dust from her eyes.

His cheek twitched - not a smile or a grimace, but some unnamed mixture of them both. He did not answer.

"At which Stone did you speak?"

He looked at her like he had expected her to already know. "The Bloodstone."

Even in the dim light she could see something flash through his eyes that was not entirely pleasant.

"The Stone Of Gol is not any easier." Her voice was somehow flat. She did not know if she was speaking to him, or to herself.

He reached out and took her elbow, leading her to a pile of sacking, and letting her sit comfortably before he answered her.

"I imagine so. . . any prominent role in the Journey is difficult." For some reason he did not sound convinced.

"Yet you did not run?" Her own shame was still clouding her insight.

"No, I did not. . ." He paused a long time, going to sit on a nearby crate. "But I wished to."

And then. . . she understood. Khosaar had been the third son of T'Priah, and a violent, untamable, vicious immortal, full of caprices, and never, never merciful. For him to speak at that Stone, even in the presence of the most modern of Vulcans, would be to invite a comparison between himself and the God of War.

It was the sort of legacy that anyone might be expected to run from.

" _Tushah nash-veh k'du_."

To the end of her days she never knew what made her say such a thing to him.

He laughed. A full, deep, pure sound, not at all the light, meaningless noise most Humans seemed to employ.

Again, it was so in keeping with his persona, she never questioned his emotional display.

" _Nafai-kah ifdu_ ," he said, solemnly, and changed the subject. "And so, we are the most distant of cousins. . ." He looked at her, clearly expecting her name.

"T'Pring," she said, steadily.

His eyes lit up, "Fortuitous," he said, cryptically, reaching out to pick up the lantern, turning it so the rest of the cave was no longer in shadow.

All at once she understood a little more of what she had heard while she had been so heavily dazed from her fall.

The cave was much wider than she had first thought, opening up at a sharp angle just beyond where she was sitting. As the lantern's beam swept across and around, she could see at least two dozen pits dug at respectfully wide intervals in the sandstone floor, and the cave continued on further back beyond them, curving beyond the lantern's reach.

She had stumbled into a Burial Cave. . .

Before her skin could begin to crawl, her companion stood and led her to the nearest of the pits. He was so matter-of-fact in his posture that he did not have to explain that this was not some random digging up of one of the horrifying mass-graves from one of the wars, nor a grisly looting expedition, but a deliberate excavation of a major and important find.

He hooked the lantern up to an elaborate projector cradle, and all at once the area around the pit became eye-grillingly bright. He picked up one of the tools that were scattered about and eased into the pit, settling and bracing his feet with great care. The walls of the pit came to above his waist. His eyes flicked to hers for a moment, and then he crouched down to do his work.

_Tink. . . Tink. . . Tink. . ._

_Tinkkkk. . . tshh tshh._

She understood still more.

"I am in service at the _Kel-vat Ekosi'vishlar_ \- you know of it?" Enclosed in such a small space, his voice did not echo.

"Yes."

He stood up briefly, dropping some rocky fragments onto a tray.

_Rattttttttt-thhhshh. . . tat-tattt._

"There are at least fifteen high-ranking _Ahkh'haile_ buried in this cave." He crouched down again, "And most of them with their _Neki'ne_ beside them."

_Tink tink. . . Tink. . ._

_Tshhh-shhshsh. . ._

"And there are grave types from at least three major periods - _Foshin_ , _Ke-tarya'morov_ , and _Ek'mishan_." He stood up again and pointed to the three different parts of the cave indicated by each era he named.

Slowly she neared the open pit, eventually mustering the courage to touch the sifting tray he had put the debris into.

"For the past three years I have worked on the _Vesht Ahkh In'nahr_ exhibit. My work here will constitute a significant advancement towards its completion."

He stood up once more, and with a push and a twist, sat down on the edge of the pit.

"But, I am not boring you - t'pring?"

"No. . ." A small, cold, metal object was dropped into her hand. Only then did she realize that he had not said her name, but meant the thing he had given her.

She looked down at it, corroded and dirty still, but the shape could clearly be seen to be that of a figure-eight knot. She ran her thumb across it, and she could see the shallow-etched lines that mimicked rope-like patterns on its surface.

Until that moment, it had been worn by some great warrior. . .

She quickly handed it back.

He took it, looking up at her with a strange expression twisting his mouth.

"It is time you were going home," he said, dusting off his hands and turning to gather up his scattered tools.

She nodded, briefly, wondering just how far into the maze of caves and tunnels she had run, and how far he had carried her.

She looked around at the lonely cave again, suddenly aware that when he had come to rescue her, he had not been alone. . .

There was a narrow track of disturbed dust leading from their location and deeper into the cave. . . around the far bend and into. . . what? There were no footprints, but the track had clearly been freshly swept. As if. . . as if he had been trying to _conceal_. . .

What?

Then he lifted the lantern from its cradle, and the not-pathway disappeared into shadow again.

He did not speak while he led her out, but she could feel a very strange emotional projection from him. It was unlike anything she had ever sensed from anyone before, not even during the strangest or most unlikely scenes she had experienced with Spock.

He seemed to flinch at her thoughts, and the feeling retreated.

She was never more glad in her life than when they finally emerged out into the bright reddish glare of the plateau.

He pointed, "The Path is that way - you will know you are walking the right direction if the stones edging the path lean towards you. When you walk to the Mountain, they lean away."

He met her eyes briefly, and slipped something into her hand.

_His eyes are light brown, flecked with green. . ._

She looked down at what he had given her. It was a small, thin strip of plastic of the kind that businessmen handed out to clients.

On one side there was the elaborate seal of the Vulcan Museum of Antiquities, and on the other. . .

On the other side, there were contact numbers, a name, and a title.

 _Ql'heksh Al'gath Stonn_ \- _Co-curator_

_Stonn._

By the time she looked up from the card, he had vanished back into the caves.

She put it into her pocket, finally beginning to make her way back the beginning of the Path.

The mist was thicker now. The steams from the T'Karath hot springs off to the south often cloaked most of the Plains of Seleya during the late afternoon. The outlines of everything were highly blurred, and the light was much more of a glare. She stayed resolutely upon the Path, knowing that no help was left for her if she became lost among the labyrinthine tunnels again.

It was an ghostly, lonely walk.

She did not remember a centimeter of it.

Reaching the hovercraft at last, she took her seat, spending a few minutes rearranging her hair and hood to cover her bruised face - as soon as she returned home she would clean herself and heal the bruise - and she easily hid her sorely scraped hands beneath her sleeves.

It was well she had done so, for not five minutes later, her family returned as well, climbing quickly and solemnly into the hovercar with her.

They acknowledged her presence, but there were no questions.

She was not the first one to have run from the terrifying peace of Surak, nor would she be the last.

In their eyes, hers was the easily borne shame of a child of whom too much had been asked, and not enough had been given. They would bear it with her, in silence.

The ride back to Shi'Kahr seemed even longer than the trip away from it had been, but she did not complain, even in her mind.

She touched the small slip of plastic tucked into her pocket.

If looked as if her life was opening up, at last.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Shan'hal'lak_ \- Emotional engulfment, specifically the engulfment of love at first sight.

 _ **Yehvaru't'halovaya**_ \- Literally "the fabled journey". A ritualized re-enactment of Surak's first climb up Mount Seleya. Part of the Vulcan Festival of Surak, but only performed on Gad'r'tas.

 _Gad_ \- Day; time for the planet to make a complete rotation on its axis

 _ **Gadwuh'rak**_ \- First day of the week

 _ **Gadahrik**_ \- Second day of the week

 _ **Rehkuh'ekgad**_ \- Third day of the week

 _ **Kehkuh'ukgad**_ \- Fourth day of the week

 _ **Kaukuh'ukgad**_ \- Fifth day of the week

 _ **Shehkuh'ukgad**_ \- Sixth day of the week

 _ **Gadshahtuk**_ \- Seventh day of the week

 _ **Gad'r'tas**_ \- Literally "year day" or "leap day". A day added to the calendar when necessary to keep the seasons aligned. Usually occurs once every twelve years, but there are rare exceptions. Is not part of any month, and has no week day.

 _Sash-savas_ \- A strongly flavored, citrus-like fruit whose skin is pale green with pinkish spots. The pulp is light pink and the seeds are dark green. Both skin and pulp are often used in drinks and cooked dishes. The seeds are used for several medicinal purposes.

 _Mount Seleya_ \- A mountain in the Gol range. Located in the Xial province on the continent of Na'nam. Has been a sacred mountain since before Surak; contains a temple, and Surak's katric ark.

 _ **Cir-cenchakh**_ \- Edible cactus-like plant native to the Kel province on the continent of Han-Shir.

 _Kreyla_ \- Vulcan breakfast biscuits. A flat, crisp, double-baked type of bread, often flavored with sweet or savory herbs. Usually eaten with soup.

 _Kun-el_ \- Hill, or foothill. A well-defined natural elevation either smaller than a mountain, or indicating a mountain of smaller size than others near it.

 _ **Va'hak**_ \- Literally "infinite melody". Used when referring to a song or poem that has been canonized in Vulcan philosophy or religion.

 _Shen_ \- Ascent. The act or process of rising or going upward

 _ **Rasath-shek-tukh**_ \- Literally "iron weight". The largest Vulcan unit of weight - equal to approximately one half of a metric ton.

 _Zasuhl_ \- Granite. A common, coarse-grained, hard igneous rock. Has many colors and cultural meanings.

 _Sbah_ \- Red. Specifically rust-red, or murky, brownish red.

 _Lanka-gar'ukh_ \- The Vulcan North Star. Belongs in the Vulcan constellation " _Zhuksu-t'naehm_ " - The Warrior. Corresponds to the binary star system 61 Cygni in the Terran constellation Cygnus.

 _Lhm'ta_ \- A Vulcan herb akin to Terran lavender. The flowers, leaves, stems, roots and sap are all used, almost exclusively in the preparation of incense. Culturally represents the act of remembering past deeds - either of yourself or your ancestors.

 _K'rhth'a_ \- A Vulcan herb akin to Terran rosemary. The leaves are sometimes used to flavor food, but more commonly the bark and sap are used in sachets, incense, and ceremonial rites. Culturally represents the virtue of faithfulness.

 _Alem_ \- Salt, specifically sodium chloride. Has many cultural meanings, dependent on the other symbolic items used in concert with it.

 _Thas_ \- Milk. (noun) The liquid which female mammals secrete to feed their young.

 _T'Priah_ \- The ancient Vulcan Goddess of Fertility. Often called "Mother of Life". First wife of Oekon.

 _Khosaar_ \- The ancient Vulcan God of War. Third son of T'Priah and Oekon.

 _ **Ek'tra-kanash'es**_ \- Literally "planet of desire". In Vulcan mythology called the "Blessed Place". In ancient times thought to be the first stop on the path to heaven. In modern times also called Val'dena. Third planet in the Vulcan system. Uninhabited, N Class. The Vulcan "evening star", traditionally associated with T'Priah, goddess of fertility and love.

 _Yar-kov_ \- Vulcan jade. Chemically can be either nephrite or jadeite. Colors generally range from green to white, but some varieties can be pink, blue, black, purple, or orange. Clarity can range from opaque to nearly transparent. During the Vulcan Stone Age was used as the main material for knives and other cutting tools, including weapons. In modern times generally used as a gemstone or in carving. Has several cultural meanings, dependent on form and color.

 _Senepa_ \- A weapon with a poisoned tip or edge. Usually made with a crescent-shaped blade not more than 30 centimeters long. Can be made of either stone or metal. The handle is made in one piece with the blade, and is usually inset with the name of the maker.

 _Khaf_ \- Blood. Specifically green, copper-based blood.

 _Gol_ \- An ancient word with many translations and applications. Most commonly used as a geographical name for a province, and a mountain range and religious complex within that province. Culturally and historically can be used as an adjective or prefix which implies or solidifies power, enumerates or amplifies a gift, or invokes a calling. Also a name of two specific stones - the first a fist-sized crystalline matrix which has the unique property of amplifying psionic energy, and the second a carved pillar of black granite from which the first was mined.

 _Reah_ \- The ancient Vulcan Goddess of the Underworld, the dealer of death and bereavement. Eldest daughter of Kharh, the God of Fear. Almost always depicted alone, with her hands outstretched, and a cavity in her side where her heart would be.

 _Kal-a'pton_ \- Fifth planet in the Vulcan system. Uninhabited gas giant, J Class. In Vulcan mythology called the "Cursed Place". In ancient times thought to be hell, or purgatory.

 _ **Pla'kohv-tukh**_ \- Blue quartz. The rarest naturally occurring colored gemstone on Vulcan. Culturally represents the virtue of serenity.

 _Mol-kom_ \- Serenity. The state or quality of being serene; a disposition free from stress or emotion; the absence of mental stress or anxiety. Also known as being "Too pretty to die" or "Shiny." (o_~)

 _Sazasfek_ \- Crest. The top point of a mountain or hill

 _C'Thia_ \- The ancient Vulcan Goddess of Chaos, eldest daughter of Oekon. Always depicted with her twin brother A'rie'mnu, as the ever opposing yet balanced forces of the universe. In the Vulcan Revolutionary Period it was the name of a female Vulcan philosopher who allowed for logical discourse without purpose or direction. Eventually the term became associated with the standard Vulcan philosophy of acceptance of reality and ultimate search for truth. Also the name of the first step in the kolinahr process.

 _ **A'rie'mnu**_ \- The ancient Vulcan God of Order, eldest son of Oekon. Always depicted with his twin sister, C'Thia. In modern Vulcan philosophy depicts the necessity of mastery of one's passions and emotions. Also the name of the final step in the kolinahr process.

 _Oekon_ \- God; The Supreme Being. In Vulcan mythology called The God Of All.

 _Sha'amii_ \- A goat-like herbivore, lives wild in the desert, but often domesticated; it yields milk, other dairy products and a long, silken wool, for which Vulcan is famous. Flocks do not require grain feed but can subsist on the native vegetation.

 _ **Ha'a. . . Heh rai.**_ \- "Yes. . . And no."

 _ **Tuun-boshi t'bolaua wai kah-if istau'be'aitlau**_ \- "Be wary of need, for there is but a thin line between enough and too much." (Vulcan Proverb)

 _Tushah nash-veh k'du_ \- "I grieve with thee." Formal phrase used when speaking to one person of equal or lower status. Implies friendship and/or familial intimacy.

 _ **Nafai-kah ifdu**_ \- "Thank you." Literally - "What you have done is acknowledged". A Vulcan phrase of pure logic, unlike the implied emotion of the Human term.

 _ **Kel-vat Ekosi'vishlar**_ \- The Museum of Antiquities. Located in Shi'Kahr.

 _ **Ahkh'haile**_ \- Centurion, or General. Literally "warlord". Used up until and during the Vulcan Middle Period to denote a major leader both on the battlefield and in daily life.

 _Neki'ne_ \- Shield-partner or wingman. The person a warrior could trust most in the heat of battle; a trusted friend and skilled warrior. Literally "strong supporter".

 _ **Foshin**_ \- A warrior trained in ancient defensive psionic techniques. Also the title given to a period of time in the Vulcan Stone Age.

 _ **Ke-tarya'morov**_ \- Hand-to-hand combat, or any contest or struggle that causes bloodshed. Used to refer to a period of time in the Vulcan Bronze Period

 _Ek'mishan_ \- Literally "technology". Applies to all machines - simple as well as electronic. Includes the application of scientific methods, especially for industrial or commercial objectives. Also the title given to a section of the Vulcan Middle Period.

 _ **Vesht Ahkh In'nahr**_ \- The history and study of all psionic warriors, their social evolution, battlefield techniques and paraphernalia, and economic and historic importance. Also the name of a popular exhibit at the Vulcan Museum of Antiquities.

 _ **T'pring**_ \- A small brass or silver decoration molded in the shape of a knot or braid. Awarded to knights in ancient times to signify their valor in battle. Can be used as a proper name; means "little treasure".

 _Stonn_ \- A zoological term meaning horn, or antler. Also a musical term, meaning any hollow, flared-tube shaped musical instrument played by blowing (excluding reeded instruments). Most commonly used if the instrument is made of metal. Can be used as a proper name; means "sound of triumph and alarm".


	11. Chapter Ten

_"As soon as you think you understand a woman, check yourself into the hospital, because you've clearly gone crazy."_

_\- Dr. Leonard McCoy_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_He came up behind her, circling his arms around her waist and slipping his hands beneath her loose fitting tunic. Gently, he caressed the soft rise of her stomach. Images of long ago nights spent alone in the Tar'hana highlands fleeted through his mind. He leaned backwards, carrying her with him, resting the full curves of her body on his as he lay down. He did not speak, but raised one of his arms, and pointed to the stars, tracing new patterns into the diamond-studded blackness. His other hand still rested upon the skin of her belly, and through his fingertips he could hear her wonder, and her curiosity. She twisted, attempting to turn over, trying to see his face. . ._

The dream broke suddenly, as it always did, leaving him cold, disoriented, and more unwilling than usual to leave the warmth of a comfortable bed.

He reached out groggily, poking blindly at the AC controls, trying to raise the already sweltering temperature in the room. Strange how the tiny draft from under the door always managed to find its way under the covers and right down his spine.

He was grateful for Pike's hospitality, but the man kept his house "comfortable" at positively _arctic_ temperatures.

Well. That was probably an exaggeration.

Spock sighed and gave up, heaving his almost ludicrously massive pile of blankets over his head again.

It seemed like his life was closing in on him.

Two years. It had been over two years here on this chilly, damp, unrelentingly _Human_ planet, and still the closest things he had to friends were an aging Captain who wanted one more day in the sun before turning a glittering new flagship over to the next generation; and a fragile, emotionally uncertain, very Human woman who had just left him so she could study _plants_ on Omicron Ceti III.

 _Plants. . . I am less interesting than_ _**plants** _ _. . ._

He knew he was being childishly petulant.

But . . . what else was there to do when there was still so much of T'Pring rattling around in his mind? It was so. . . _unfair_. . . how easily this unwanted bond could dominate his subconscious, and how difficult it had been - and how difficult it was going to continue to be - for him to find any sort of possible replacement. He ran his fingertips across his eyelids and sighed, trying to shake free of that still lingering presence of. . . of. . . _instability_. Her direct presence was finally gone, but emotions that were not his own, and thoughts with which he did not agree still swirled towards him through the bond. With a great effort he closed and locked his mind, as he had done so often before. However, the effort did little to restore his inner peace. The pillow, all the blankets, and indeed the whole room smelled like her, and so did he. Her hormonal transference was still seeping from him, like sap from a torn flower stalk, or blood from a beast newly dead.

He huffed, disgusted with himself. There was no reason to be so morbid.

Suddenly, he gave it up, and flung himself out of the bed. He almost ran to the shower stall, tearing off the nightclothes that still carried her pheromones. As he stepped underneath the pleasingly abundant and unrestricted spray of steaming water, he found himself worrying. For the past two years, each of her Times had been followed by increasing residual effects for him. Two times previously, he had even had to go back into her dreams when he had thought it all safely over - she had slipped back into the Shadowlands, and he had been obligated to help her.

Her sudden and unexpected need had washed through the bond, and he had fallen asleep in the middle of taking his midterm exam for Advanced Warp Theory. Her Time had hit him while he had been awake before, but usually it merely made his mental processes slow, and prompted him to meditate and sleep for far longer periods of time than usual. But that time he had plummeted so deeply into sleep that the on-site Starfleet attending doctor had been forced to make an emergency call to Healer T'Shah - just to wake him up. She had slapped him across the face hard enough to call him out of the Shadowlands for a while.

Then, ignoring the shocked Humans that had gathered around them, she had advised him to finish this exam today, but to link into the video stream of the lectures he must attend for the next week, and do his work primarily from home.

Spock had nodded, and returned to his exam for once thoroughly grateful for his rote-learning abilities. Certainly his mind just then had not been on composing a 5000 word essay on possible new applications for the trans-dimensional interferometric constants, not at all.

He had spent a full fifty-two percent of the next week in crushingly unrefreshing slumber, fighting for T'Pring's life, and desperate for his own sanity into the bargain.

As usual, he had been directly present in her dreams only when he was also asleep, but the deep need of her psionic link to him during such an extended Time had meant that a large majority of his subconscious was constantly occupied with her, no matter if he was awake or asleep, and he did not dream any dreams that were solely his own so long as she needed him.

That week had nearly driven him mad.

Eventually they had separated again, both of them whole, and sane, but he had never known what true exhaustion was until that moment. He had barely managed to drag his presence from her finally soothed _katra_ , only just conscious of himself enough to shut the bond, and then had collapsed into sleep that was at last fully his own.

He had smelled her on his skin for a full month afterwards.

He had never hated her until then. After their first dream-encounter over five years ago, he had never felt more than an interest, or some vague apprehension towards her, but then. . . when she had refused to leave his system, when her scent clung to him as though she had become _part_ of him somehow, as if she _owned_ him. . . only then had he found it in his heart to hate the woman, not merely the situation they both were in.

And he was worried.

Had they had waited too long? Had the betrothal bond moved too close to the marriage place on their _katras_ without them noticing? Had the one time they had fully joined meant more than either of them had thought? Only a trained Elder could tell them, and he readily admitted he was frightened of what might possibly be found if he submitted to a Healer's mind-meld. _T'hy'la_ bonds were made and broken all the time - practically any third-year _c'thia_ trained Vulcan could perform a dissolution of a _t'hy'la_ bond - but a full marriage bond? True divorce was rare, and had been throughout their history. It often resulted in half-broken bonds with trailing ends that would latch on to unsuspecting strangers randomly; or it could cause a ragged-edged mental scarring which developed into violent schizophrenia; other forms of emotional damage were common too; and it could even lead to, most horribly, an incurable and _permanent_ type of _plak-tau_.

_To be in the Fires forever. . ._

No, that was wrong. It would not, in practice, actually last forever. . .

He thought, perhaps, that the Human concept of Hell was far more accurate than most Vulcans would care to admit.

He knew - for all the statistics showed it - after full marriage bonds were severed, less than a year later, there was a better than fifty-percent chance that the death of either or both of the parties involved would result. This was true regardless of whether either of them had been re-bonded or not - and more often than not, it was a death that had been achieved by their own hands.

_Not entirely a surprise._

And his personal risks only went up from there. He had no one to take up the bond, even if it _was_ still a _t'hy'la_ bond, and if it _was_ cleanly severed. There was his own Time to be considered. True, he might have been spared it, but there was no guarantee. Until he found someone, T'Pring was _necessary_. And as far as he knew, she had not found anyone else either, therefore he was _also_ necessary. Legally and logically, there was _no_ recourse for them, regardless of their true wants.

He sighed, perplexed and afraid. Would they - _could_ they ever successfully separate, fully and completely?

He turned the water to the highest heat setting that was still safe. He was determined to remove her scent from himself this time, to sweat it out if necessary.

He had, paradoxically, felt closer to her ever since he had gone away.

Nearly fourteen years of utter silence through the bond, and only during the past two years, when he was _lightyears_ away from her, did it. . . _No._ _ **She**_. . . call to him. He could even yet feel the echoes of her voice in his mind, a far stronger presence than she had ever been before he had left Vulcan.

_Sa-kugalsu. . . ?_

The faint whisper tapped at the edge of his mind.

He ignored it.

_Sa-kugalsu. . . ?_

The whisper grew into a light pleading call, deceptively sweet and pleasant. He leaned his forehead against the cool plastic of the shower wall, letting the beat of the hot water send him into a light trance. He added another layer to the bond-shield, forcefully blocking out the call.

It whispered again, fainter this time, and then mercifully retreated.

He always felt such wanting from her now, particularly after her Time, but it was a grasping, cloying want, _too_ sweet, like the sap of the _mh'gere_ tree, and too ethereal, too haunting, crouching just beyond the reach of his mental shields, beckoning alluringly to him, baiting him with succulent promises, but obviously false, as if she was a predator and he was prey. Humans would call it a "siren's song", but it was, in fact, a uniquely and obsessively Vulcan phenomenon. Such things still lived in most bonds, he believed, but usually only as a remnant, a warning to both parties about their race's horrifically barbarous past. Most couples could control the reaction - and wished to do so. For T'Pring and himself, in contrast, it was an awful imposition, uncontrollable, dreadfully distracting, and unstable.

The bond had turned from what it ought to have been - a living, growing watercourse of personality - into a capricious, insinuating, _thing_ , dead but for the untenable emotions that still plagued it.

Even so, he could scarcely believe he had come to the point of _hating_ her for it. . . but he had.

He admitted to himself that he had far preferred her silence.

He shook his head, spraying drops of water from his sopping hair. The steam and hot water had brought the smell of her more strongly to his nostrils. Not for the first time he found he wished that he had never fully experienced her scent covering him - every time he smelled her now, even when it was just the edges of her through the hormonal transference, it triggered something, deep in his _katra_ , that was altogether best forgotten. He reached for the tangerine scented soap Pike seemed to favor, wishing he had thought to bring the _th'laaxk'sa_ infused _sha'amii-thas_ soap that T'Shah made especially for Vulcans who lived on Earth. Only her special herbal formulas seemed to be able to fully dispel any scent from his skin that he happened to dislike. But, it was back at Hill House. He had left so suddenly last week, he had neglected to pack several necessities.

An entirely different wave of misery rose up in him.

For all too brief a time, T'Pring had made him forget. . .

_Leila. . ._

There was a gap in his mind where she used to be.

He had never seriously considered Leila a possible mate, but he had found her a pleasant and beneficial comrade. They had bonded suddenly - one day, _her_ mind had spontaneously initiated a _t'hy'la_ link when she had impulsively come to sit near him - so that he had felt justified in forming a functional connection with her. It had been so instantaneous, and so natural. He did not understand it, but he welcomed it. A _real_ friendship.

For a few months, they had conducted the experiment. She had occupied the seat next to him that many had coveted, but had been spurned for their troubles, and he had someone to share things with, and someone who cared. Not someone who was only there for the mountain-shattering problems and times of crisis, but someone who wanted to learn his little quirks, like how he would sit when studying; how he preferred his tea; how his mind often wandered when he was nervous about saying the wrong thing; and could understand how he could never, not in a thousand years, _admit_ that the possibility of saying the wrong thing ever made him nervous, but could reassure him about it anyway.

He had not even _thought_ about her as a choice-mate. It went quite beyond the fact that with T'Pring still living in his mind, he had very little left to give to an emotional Human woman who did not, and could not understand his reserve; but he also found himself baffled as to how one even went about _finding_ choice-mates. How could he find someone else when his mind was so easily taken over by thoughts of T'Pring? Surely no Vulcan woman on Earth would consider a relationship with him while he was still bonded, and he could not be _unbonded_ until he had found someone.

It was a vicious circle, complicated further by the fact that, when he was being fully honest, he found himself far more physically and mentally comfortable with unmarried Human women than he ever had been with available Vulcan women. Ever since Leila had given him a taste of how a normal Human non-familial relationship worked, he found himself drawn to the Human race far more than his own.

He kept having to remind himself that he _was_ half-Human, and that this inclination was not a betrayal.

But Leila had _shown_ him that. He had never had to remind himself of his heritage when they were together.

She had been a friend, and a true one.

_No more than that._

But no _less_ , either. For the first time he had understood why his mother always insisted he try to make friends. They _were_ essential to a Human's mental well-being. He saw that now. They were one of many Human expressions of Love, and quite necessary. Not since I-Chaya had he experienced anything like it, only this time a beautifully intelligent _sentient_ mind had desired to simply _be_ near him.

It had been glorious.

And then. . . then, he had seen her eyes change. One day, she had been his faithful companion, sitting next to him, demanding nothing, and the next her eyes had held the same strange pain within them that he had seen in T'Pring's the day he had told her she was free to choose the mate that suited her.

At that moment, he knew he must not let the relationship continue. He must not be a burden on Leila like he and T'Pring were upon each other. He could not let Leila sting his heart like T'Pring still could. Leila must _never_ be hated. Things must _not_ progress to that point. Leila was Human - she could never bear the consequences of a dysfunctional Vulcan bond. Or at least she ought not, and she _would_ not, if he could do anything about it.

He had brooded for a whole week, wondering how he could possibly break the connection to her. He had never fully explained the _t'hy'la_ bond they shared; she did not truly know what it meant, or how much he did not wish it to end. Most importantly, she did not know how _painful_ such a severing would be. Not just for him, but for her. How could he hurt her so? To let the bond continue was impossible, but to _abandon_ her without warning. . .

And then one morning she had told him she was leaving.

He had tried not to let his relief show.

He was not entirely sure he had succeeded.

That night, he had severed the bond, taking as much of the burden of the experience on himself as was possible. Very likely she had felt nothing when he had finally clipped the slender golden thread between them, or if she had, she had not known what it meant. It had been a young bond, still soft, neither deeply placed nor intimately rooted. It had only existed for a few months.

Removing it had still hurt.

The next afternoon, he had seen her off, watching her features sparkle with unshed tears, then dissolve under the force of the transporter beam.

He hoped that one day she would learn to be happy without him.

And he hoped. . . one day. . . to forget her. Somehow.

To forget, to stow the pain away in nacre and not remember until time had lapped the memory into pearl. . . such was a Human gift, and one he had apparently not been granted.

A term his mother sometimes used had run through his mind. But indulging in "a good cry" would have been most unwise.

He had gone home to Hill House, impulsively drifting off to sleep on the couch in the living area. . . and then, while he wandered deep within the somber, yet healing oasis of his own dreams, T'Pring had drawn his mind away, demanding the rescue he could not refuse.

Hours later, he had awakened, a short respite from the cycle of twisted, hyperkinetic, grotesque and overbearingly erotic dreams her Times had become, and the walls of Hill House had suddenly become too empty to hold his grief, his loneliness, and growing despair.

Having just lost Leila, and then being once again burdened with T'Pring's instability, there, in a house that reminded him of his otherness and his deficiencies as a son - it was entirely too much.

He had messaged Pike, imploring him for sanctuary. Of course Chris had said yes, even knowing as little as he did about Spock's periodic unexplained illnesses, and he had been packed and on his hoverbike almost before Pike had cut the connection. Chris had not asked any questions either, not even when Spock had begun sleeping erratically, not going in to his classes, but logging into lectures from his room instead, and making requests that could only seem to Chris to be the height of eccentricity.

Embarrassment washed over him as he remembered all his odd and insistent requests - for pillows, for extra blankets, for books, PADDs, music, incense, tea, for changes to the ambient temperature, for extremely precisely prepared food and drink during the intermittent but intense nausea the link to T'Pring could induce, and for hot salt water when the nausea had overwhelmed him and he needed to rinse his mouth. Furthermore, he had wept at odd times and cried out in disgust or horror or. . . other reasons. . . at ungodly hours of the night. But Chris had dealt with every request, every happening, with remarkable dignity, silent compassion, and without so much as a grunt of disapproval.

Chris had even gone to T'Shah's shop near the city's Vulcan Quarter, and had bought Spock the disconcertingly varied list of things he had forgotten at Hill House. She had been out of the special soap, promising to make more by the end of the week, but Chris had apparently also had a long talk to her, about him. He was uncertain how he felt about T'Shah teaching Pike the traditional Vulcan Flame Tea ceremony, but he did admit that a welcome consequence was that Chris's preparation of the tea had improved exponentially over the past several days. He was grateful for this, given that the drink was one of the few things which could settle his stomach during the tumult of T'Pring's Times.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapping up securely in one of the huge plush towels Chris had provided. There were many things upon which he and Chris did not agree, but an acceptable level of quality in regards to towels was not one of them.

For the first time in a week, he felt steady enough to shave. Slowly. Methodically. And the kit Pike had provided was over and above acceptable.

He was certain that Chris did not know what a godsend this unstinting hospitality had been. . . looking at the razor in his hand, Spock was almost afraid of how close he had come to insanity _this_ time around too. As if very grave uncertainty about his _own_ Time, coupled with the ever-present fear of insanity and death during it was not enough.

If it had not been for Christopher Pike. . .

He dared not finish the thought.

He wiped his face and contemplated his future. He was still alive, therefore, the matter of where he was now to live _must_ be considered.

He had many options.

First, he could remain at Hill House. It _was_ ideal, save that it was now filled with memories. Memories that reminded him far too much of two women, so different from each other, but with the same pain in their eyes. . . pain that _he_ had been involved in causing.

Next, he could search for an apartment to rent. Problematic, since this would mean an extra expenditure that was almost entirely unjustified - an illogical waste of funds.

Then, he could live in his rooms at the Vulcan Embassy. He sighed, and for a moment buried his head in his hands. He had been to the Embassy many times over the past two years, of course, for reasons ranging from his fourth-year _c'thia_ training that had necessitated using some of the Embassy's facilities, to the three times Amanda had visited Earth in that time, and had met him there. The Embassy was a large part of his life, and no doubt would continue to be so.

But. . .

 _Living_ there was. . . almost unthinkable. Hill House now had an overbearing emotional burden upon it, to be sure, but even that paled in comparison to the one he would face at the Embassy. Besides, it was much farther from the Academy's Headquarters than was optimal.

No. Not the Embassy.

Another option - he could ask T'Shah for help and accommodation. Difficult, given that they both led very different lives. Additionally, she would no doubt question why he desired to move his permanent residence, and that was a discussion he did not yet feel capable of enduring. T'Shah was his _m'aih'nahr_ \- he could not logically deny her the full story, and that was something he was not yet ready to tell.

He could also remain here with Pike. Not indefinitely, but for a while.

And, finally, he could request an Academy dorm room. He might even be able to qualify for a private suite, given that he held the rank of Lieutenant.

He wandered back into the bedroom, meaning to get fresh clothes and go downstairs to prepare the first real meal he would be able to stomach in nearly a week.

As he rummaged among his belongings, he looked over at the bed, not bothering to restrain his distaste. The smell of her Time still permeated the room. His insides clenched with the now familiar need to retch. He would not sleep in that bed again. _Could_ not.

Somehow, that made up his mind. He would go, now, and ask Chris if he could aid him in procuring housing among the Academy dorms.

Two years of false independence was enough.

It was high time he _joined_ Starfleet.

* * *

"Mack!" Pike grinned as he opened the door, "What brings you here? Come in, come in - want a drink?"

Admiral James Komack slipped into the house with a much lighter step than most people would credit him. He answered none of Chris's questions, instead choosing to fend off Mina's loving attacks.

Mina, Chris's border collie, had come into the room as soon as she had heard Mack's hovercar, and had leaped at him with a torrent of happy barking the second she had scented him at the door. She was an intelligent and loyal little thing, Chris mused, and genuinely loved him, but she was also hopelessly infatuated with the Admiral. Whenever Mack was around, she would either pester him with her toys until he threw them for her, or give him her saddest looks and most entreating whines until he ponied up with a treat or a pat on the head.

_She's just lucky this crush seems to go both ways. . ._

Chris highly suspected that Mack's habit of carrying packets of cheese crackers everywhere with him was not the older Admiral succumbing to a snacking addiction, as was rumored around campus, but was, in fact, security for any unexpected meetings with Mina. He smiled as Mack gave her one of them now, scratching her behind the ears as she ate it.

Neither of them minded her sweet doggish ways, but she often got underfoot when they moved about, so they quickly went to sit on the stools near the high kitchen counter. Mack snapped his fingers at her, and she settled down between the legs of the stools, content for the moment.

"Scotch and soda?" Chris asked, trying again.

"Gods, yes," said Mack, leaning on the bar, and Chris jumped up to comply. "How's your house-guest?" He inclined his head to indicate upstairs, where he knew Spock had been living for almost a week now.

"Still sleeping, I think," Chris said, as he poured for both of them.

"Good."

"Why?"

Mack looked grave as he took his drink. "Because, this is about the kid."

Chris sighed, sipped his drink, leaned on the bar, and tried not to look too defensive. _Poor guy can't even be sick in peace. . ._ "All right - let's get on with it," he said, a little too sharply.

Mack grimaced a little, "Now, don't _you_ start. I feel the same way, but this is business."

"Should we stay here, then?" Chris gestured at his office door down the hall, "You want to move in there? Vulcan hearing is uncannily sharp. . ." he pointed upstairs, suddenly paranoid, even though Spock had yet to come downstairs at this time of day, poor sick kid. . .

"Nah," Mack waved his worries away, "I'm not going to say anything that he wouldn't hear eventually."

"Okay?" said Chris, now really worried.

Mack sighed. "High Command wants you to make him your first officer when you get the _Enterprise_."

"That's it?" he frowned, "Why do they want that? He hasn't even graduated yet - though I understand why they'd want me to pick him over some other cadets of his year. . ."

Mack shook his head. "They want him kept happy."

"Happy? I don't know if he's _ever_ been happy. . ."

"Fine then - content, pleased, at ease, calm, insouciant, zen, tickled pink - whatever, just keep him that way, okay?"

Chris laughed, "Well, Admiral, I'm impressed. . . with your vocabulary if nothing else. . . and in Spock's case it would be "tickled green" - if he can be tickled, which I doubt."

"The point is, that kid is more important than he realizes. Keep him happy, got it?"

His lip twisted with distaste, "Don't you think "that kid" has been used enough? He was _born_ into political disputes, and now, just when he's starting to be his own person, we're going to try to "keep him" for our own purposes? Don't you think that's just a _little_ Machiavellian? He did _choose_ to be here, Mack."

"Yes, he did," the Admiral nodded, "that's the point."

"So, what makes you think he'd ever change his mind?"

"Nothing."

"So. . ."

"Look," Mack sighed, "the brass don't understand Spock like you do - I don't think anyone does. They want to make sure the good thing they've got going _keeps_ on going."

Chris barked a laugh. "In almost no other way does Spock resemble a pink, drum-playing rabbit, but he _is_ exactly the type to "keep on going", as you put it."

"Right. And the brass want to make _sure_ of that."

"Somehow this is not exactly comforting me, Mack."

He could practically _hear_ the eye roll the Admiral gave, "Look, all I know is, when it comes down to brass tacks, _I_ chose the Federation and Starfleet over anything else, _you_ chose them over anything else, _High Command_ chose them over everything else - " Komack put his finger on the bar, tapping to emphasize each of his next words, "And. So. Did. That. Kid." Mack leaned back and shook his head. "He's our best ally and he doesn't even know it. Do you know how much his presence here has improved both our non-Human enrollment _and_ the Council's interplanetary approval rating?"

Chris knew he looked highly unimpressed at this, but it served Mack right. They _had_ chosen Starfleet. That meant they were explorers, scientists, educators, diplomats, negotiators and leaders - sometimes they were heroes and occasionally they were warriors - but they were _not_ politicians. Ambassadors perhaps. . . but not narrow minded "party liners" who only wanted to keep their own little bit of power and influence, regardless of the bigger picture. . .

Weren't they?

Mack crossed his arms, apparently deciding to just spell out the High Command's reasoning. "A Vulcan chose Starfleet, Chris. _Chose_ it. Over the VSA, no less. That has impressed everyone, even Andoria, and because Andoria was impressed, Orion has finally, _finally_ begun trying to "look good in comparison" - at the very least. Did you know they've started working on an exchange student plan, complete with a hormonal blocking regimen for both sets of prospective cadets? _Orion_ is doing this. Of its own free will. _And_ submitting all plans to us for input before implementation." He shrugged, disbelievingly, "Just a little bit more of this and we might actually be able to start _doing_ something about all the piracy and smuggling in this sector. Do you know what that would mean to us all? The whole Federation would benefit, that's what that would mean. If we can get some laws in place that work in _this_ sector, then we can get laws in place that work in _other_ sectors. Just you watch - this has the potential to become a domino effect of the best kind. And all because one kid _chose_ to come here to go to school." He took a quick sip of his drink, "So now it's your _job_ to keep him here, and make sure he's satisfied with _his_ job, you _got_ that? _Captain_?"

"Okay, okay, Mack, I get it," he ran his fingers across his nose in frustration, "But what do you want me to do other than what I've already done?"

"Just what I've said. Make him your First Officer. Get him on the _Enterprise_."

"I see. So I just use blatant favoritism, and declare him my Number One? I can't do that, Mack, and you know it. If he _earns_ the position, fine, but - "

Mack was laughing, "Aha-ha! Chris, can you seriously see _Spock_ not qualifying to be your first officer? Honestly. There's no need to make it official yet, but even _I_ know he was going to make the short list anyway. You clearly think of the boy as a son, and you've already amply proved you can live in the same limited area without killing each other. Who else would you pick, hmm?"

Pike sighed. "Well, what about Gerda? She was my first officer on the _Powhatan_ , and again on the _Yorktown_ \- she's a damn fine officer, with lots of experience. That comes in handy y'know, especially when you're on the frontier like we'll be with the _Enterprise_. What makes you think I wouldn't choose her again?"

"The fact that Captain Reinhart is on a classified mission to the Antedean sector?" Mack half-mumbled with the kind of voice that did not have to explain that he shouldn't be telling him this, and simultaneously demanded his secrecy.

"Oh, _Captain_ , eh? I hadn't heard." Chris grinned, wordlessly promising not to say anything, "Good for her. But the Antedean sector is a _mess_ \- "

"Yes, a mess that is populated by mostly matriarchal races."

"Ah. I see." Chris smirked a little, "When favoritism is inapplicable, try sexism. . ."

Mack look slightly ashamed, "Yes, well. _Occasionally_ the ends can justify the means."

"You really believe that?"

"Sure. Plenty of right things have been done for the wrong reasons - and plenty of wrong things have been done for the right reasons, come to that. If High Command told Spock that B.A.S.E. jumping off El Capitan would lead to peace with the Klingons, don't you think he'd at least _think_ abou-"

"A most illogical suggestion, Admiral," said Spock, walking into the room, almost. . . almost _laughing_ , "However, I will take it under advisement."

* * *

If Spock had possessed a Human's sense of the absurd, he most likely would have termed the moments that followed his entrance as "picture perfect". Komack, having paused with his mouth open, neglected to shut it again, and Chris literally fell off the high stool he had been sitting on, landing on his feet, thankfully, but in the process had unfortunately managed to kick Mina's water bowl, sending it skittering across the stone tile floor to smash to bits against the refrigeration unit. Then Komack's comm. started beeping insistently, and Mina began barking at it. As the Admiral scrambled to answer it, the button on his cuff got caught for a second on the raised edge of the countertop, and in jerking it free, he twisted, tripped on Mina, and fell backwards onto the couch. Pike spoke sharply to Mina, much more sharply than he normally did, and so she ignored him, beginning to jump at the Admiral, snapping playfully, obviously misconstruing the ruckus as preparation for her nightly walk.

" _SIT_ , Mina!" Pike roared, just before Komack finally managed to disentangle himself and answer his comm. A very few quiet words later, he strode into Pike's office to take the call, Mina following him, still hopeful.

Only then did Pike turn and look at him.

He had watched all this from the archway of the staircase, a distinctly Human desire to laugh playing about the corners of his mouth.

The look on Pike's face now did little to dispel the feeling.

"You. . . pointy-eared. . . gahhh!" Pike exclaimed, then apparently gave up, and moved towards the broom closet. "How much did you hear?"

He only raised an eyebrow, and met Chris's eyes.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's impolite to eavesdrop?" Pike growled as he rummaged in the small cupboard.

Spock adopted what he hoped was a fair, if slightly sarcastic, imitation of Komack's voice, " _I'm not going to say anything that he wouldn't hear eventually,_ " he said, his gaze unwavering.

Pike's lip twisted, "Damn, I'm sorry about all this, Spock."

"There is no offense where none is intended."

"Yeah well, in that case, you can hold the dustpan." Chris hefted the broom with one hand, the other hand clutching a small inclined tray and a little spherical robot. Spock took the dustpan and knelt, carefully avoiding the sharp ceramic fragments. Pike swept very carefully around the stasis unit, and under the ledges of the cupboards, letting Spock put the swept-up fragments of Mina's water bowl into the reclamator before he set the robotic floor sweeper in the center of the kitchen.

"We'd better stay out of there while it scans for anything I missed," said Chris, walking purposefully into the living area, "Come in here and I'll make that Flame Tea stuff you like so much."

His stomach twisted back into the knots he had managed to forget for a few minutes. Now would be an ideal moment to ask Chris for help with his new decision to move to the Academy dorms, yet somehow, he did not feel "up to it" just yet, as his mother would have said. He was. . . _afraid_.

_Yes. I feel fear._

Interesting.

 _Now,_ _**why** _ _?_

Perhaps it was a remnant of T'Pring's emotions in his mind. Regardless, the moment to begin a serious talk with Chris had passed.

"That would be much appreciated, Christopher," he said instead.

He settled on the couch, turning and watching as Chris filled the teacups and teapot with hot water from the tiny sink in the bar, and while they warmed, began to set up the rest of the tray with all the things necessary for the Vulcan Tea Ceremony. One large black clay bowl, white-glazed on its inside, in one corner, and five much smaller, red-glazed ones ranged in front. Several tins and bottles were next, and a long-handled spoon. Chris looked confused for an instant, then clicked his tongue and grabbed at the next bowl - the completely black, oblong, trough-like one - blithely flipped it in the air, caught it, and set it behind the five round bowls. . . all without a care in the world.

His insides squirmed involuntarily at the casualness with which Pike was taking the proceedings. Hot water right from the tap - bleached filter papers - _replicated_ cream - _iodized_ salt - _sash-savas_ juice from concentrate. . . Not to mention _playing_ with the tea-set. . . Only the _yon-yekuhl_ , the _kharas'lor_ crystals, and the tea set itself - all no doubt purchased from T'Shah - were anywhere close to being traditional. He was highly grateful to Chris for all he had done in the past week, but Spock found himself even more grateful at this moment that it was only himself Chris was performing the Tea Ceremony for, and not his father, or worse - T'Pau.

Pike lightly spun the medium-sized, red-glazed plate on his hand before placing it on the tray, simultaneously reaching over to the small replicator-kettle set into the wall, dialing up boiling water.

Even Chris's motions betrayed his Human unfamiliarity with the ritual. In fact, Spock mused, it was one of the most private and personal services that non-married Vulcans could perform for each other, second only to the Rite Of Handwashing. The latter was customarily only performed at a Water Ceremony, while the tea ritual could be enacted at any time. Both always signified an important, if not familial, relationship between the participants, to the point that, if they had been on Vulcan, any observer would probably be correct in assuming they had mind-melded, at the very least, or that one was about to formally adopt the other into their clan. In no circumstance was it to be taken lightly.

Spock admitted to himself that little in Vulcan culture ever was. . .

Chris was whistling as he filled the five small red-glazed bowls with the necessary ingredients, spooning each into the dishes with a lavish hand.

To be honest, he was surprised that T'Shah had condescended to teach Chris even the basic outline of this tradition - she must have been truly alarmed by his report of Spock's illness. . .

But. . . there must have been more to it that merely that. T'Shah knew that _theris'yon-yekuhl_ was one of the only things he could stomach during his bondmate's Times, but in each previous instance, she had made a large jug of it for him to take home and drink, in whatever quantity he felt necessary. She had never felt obliged to perform the full tea ceremony for him, though she was one of the few who had an unequivocal right to do so.

What had she seen in Chris that had prompted her to reveal this tradition to someone so Human?

The replicator dinged. Christopher dumped the water out of both cups and the little teapot, then reached over to remove the kettle, placing it on the last empty space on the tray. Then it was a matter of moments for him to bring the whole thing over to the _neik-pasu_ \- which Chris most incongruously called a "coffee table", since it was far more likely to have snacks or papers upon it than anything resembling coffee.

Chris sat on his favorite low stool made from a highly polished round of knotty-pine, then lifted the kettle, ready to begin.

"First time you've actually watched me do this, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"Well, I apologize if I make any mistakes," Chris's face was rueful, "That doctor of yours said I was 'Clumsy, at best, but functional'." He barked a laugh, "Cheerful personage, she was."

Spock had so much to say to this that he could say nothing.

"Not that I can blame her, exactly. There I was, out of my head with worry over the kid puking his guts out in my guest bathroom, and I still thought that Vulcan Flame Tea was something that tweeny hipsters could buy at the corner store by the gallon bottle. . ."

"They can," Spock said, faintly, "but it is not the real thing."

"Clearly," Chris shook his head, obviously remembering Spock's first request for it. "That store-bought stuff didn't help you at _all_."

"No."

For some reason, Spock felt. . . _on edge_.

_If only he would begin, and get it over._

"So, you'll forgive me if I do something. . . less than _au fait_ , as it were?"

"Of course."

"No 'of course' about it with you Vulcans. . ." Chris mumbled, and finally, began.

He filled the tiny black-clay teapot with the boiling water, sprinkled the _yon-yekuhl_ into it deftly enough, but put the lid on too quickly. The water had still showed clear against the white-glazed interior; it had only just begun to turn rust-red from the tea.

It would have been better to watch the color turn dark before lidding it.

Spock refrained from saying anything.

Then Chris took the two little teacups, placing one on each end of the oblong plate. There was room for a third cup between them.

So far, good.

Chris put a pinch of the sweet _kharas'lor_ in each cup, and a careful two pinches of salt on the plate between them. One single-serving-size coffee filter went in each, bent and folded so they arched across the space between.

Then Chris placed the teapot inside the big bowl, and poured boiling water over it with an admirably careful hand, but he did not say the words normally said at this juncture. Spock supposed T'Shah had not told him.

_It does not matter. . . yet._

Chris lifted the steaming pot cautiously, and poured the now brownish tea into the cups, sweeping back and forth across the filters so that a good amount of tea dripped in the middle, soaking and dissolving the salt.

Then, he lifted the filters away to the red plate, raised the lid of the teapot, and emptied the cups back into it. He set the cups correctly next to the saltbowl, not into it again. Then he spooned a few drops of _sash-savas_ juice into the teapot, lidded it again, and put it back into the large bowl. He gave it another drenching with the boiling water, and correctly left it there for a minute. He put a dash of cream in each empty cup before once again carefully removing the teapot from its bath. He placed the pot in the very middle of the tray, lifted the lid again, and slowly poured the saltwater from the oblong bowl into the mixture.

Spock watched as the muddy reddish liquid reacted with the saline, and bloomed into the brilliant crimson-orange that gave the tea its name.

Pike stirred it. . . with the handle of the spoon.

Spock blinked, and said nothing.

Then Chris poured the finished tea into the waiting cups, quite properly offering the first one to Spock, but he did not know how to say the Benediction either. . .

The unglazed black-clay exterior of the cup shone where the steam had touched it, and where it was still wet from sitting in the saltbowl. The vibrant red tea glittered against its white-glazed inside.

Spock paused.

If Pike had been a Vulcan, his offering of this particular tea - and in this manner - could only be taken as Chris brazenly, arrogantly placing himself into Spock's clan and inner circle, an audacious act, almost to the point of deliberate insult. Even beyond that, if Spock was to accept it, it meant that he unequivocally welcomed the older man into his family, and not as an equal, but as a superior. If both of them drank it, it all but made Chris a member of Spock's clan - and of his _father's_ generation.

Well, and what was wrong with that? Nothing, he admitted to himself, but Chris did not _know_ the significance of what he was doing. . . and he _must_ tell him.

His stomach knotted even tighter. Was it truly a last remnant of T'Pring's Time? Or was it a disinclination to have this conversation with Chris? Or. . .

It might be distinctly sickening mixture of them both, he was not sure.

He took the cup, and sipped.

It tasted different this time, unlike any of the great mugs of mere liquid he had drunk to settle his stomach.

This tasted smaller, more deliberate, yet stronger. . . more delicate and complex. . . more. . . haunting, and. . . _true_. . . like the ethereal emotion that Humans called. . .

_Love. . ._

_Friendship is a type of love._

The thought had risen on its own. He had not had to remind himself.

_And it is necessary. . ._

For the first time in a long time - perhaps ever since he was an infant - he allowed himself to feel any kind of love without shame.

_It is logical. . ._

All at once a settled peace he had not known for more than a week wrapped around him. He could speak to Chris now.

"Captain?" he asked.

"Yes, Spock?"

"The Admiral was correct."

Christopher's brow furrowed, "Correc. . . what do you mean?"

"You have been as a father to me."

He said it simply, with his usual bland tone, but he was very sincere, and he knew Chris could read him well enough to see it.

The older man looked immeasurably abashed, and suddenly seemed overly interested in his tea.

"Yes. . . well. . ."

"You are unaware, I am sure, of the significance of the Tea Ceremony," he continued, pushing past Chris's embarrassment, "Given that you have made it for me only as a medicament, I doubt that T'Shah told you the full meaning, but by all the traditions, you are now in the place of my father."

Chris's eyes widened, but he said nothing. Perhaps he could not.

Spock raised his teacup in salute, " _A'nirih'nahr k'fonn'es_ , I have accepted your service." He finished the small cup in one gulp, gesturing for Chris to do the same.

He did.

"Now, will you accept mine?"

Pike blinked, but nodded.

Spock leaned forward, and reset the tray so that he might start from the beginning. Then he strode quickly over to the bar, picked up two more coffee filters, and rinsed out the teapot and large bowl.

Then, as deftly as possible, he began the ceremony over again, the remembered sound of T'Pau's voice giving incredibly strict instructions echoing in his ears. He had never managed to do this particular ritual to her exacting standards. . .

And his father had never even asked him to try.

Chris watched him, mesmerized, apparently.

As he bathed the teapot during the first round, he said the traditional words - " _Not by water alone is life made pure. Use fire well and peace will be yours._ " Of course, Chris didn't understand the ancient High Vulcan saying, but, oddly, he seemed to appreciate it nonetheless.

Slowly, the ingredients came together again, the bright red once more blossoming in the teapot, like a living thing, newly born.

He poured, and decided to say the Benediction in Standard. Chris deserved to understand it.

"We have differences. Together, may we become greater than the sum of both of us."

He offered the tea, now validating Chris's place as his superior with a far stronger and more personal gesture than Starfleet rank insignia could ever indicate.

Christopher accepted the cup with the good grace Spock had expected, but did not drink it right away, a strangely pensive look on his face. He inhaled, and paused before saying, "Mack wasn't right, you know."

"No?" For a brief moment, his stomach threatened to be ill again.

"No." Chris gave a short sigh, "the ends don't justify the means. Occasionally they might _forgive_ the means, but justify? No."

Spock almost sighed with relief, and canted his head to one side, remembering what Pike had said about Gerda Reinhart. "Do you _want_ me to be your First Officer?"

"Of course I do, Spock," he leaned back, never taking his eyes from his fresh cup of tea, "I just want you to earn it too, that's all."

"I intend to."

"And I'm sure you will."

"Then any talk of ends and means is irrelevant. We have our own ends, and we will use our own means."

"Logical," Pike said, with a smirk.

"Precisely."

"So. . ." said Chris, his smile evening out and becoming far more genuine, "it looks like you're pretty much assured to reach the rank of Commander, at the very least - and within the next six years too. . ."

"Indeed."

"That's almost unprecedented. . ."

Spock did not feel the need to repeat his agreement.

Suddenly Pike grinned, impishly, and flipped him his communicator, which Spock only barely managed to catch.

_Yes, I am certainly still suffering the effects of T'Pring's blood-fever. . ._

But Pike was talking - "Why don't you call up your girlfriend and take her out to dinner tonight - it's customary when a guy gets a promotion that he takes his girl out for a nice meal."

"But, I have not yet - "

"Doesn't matter. It's an excuse to get out of the house _and_ spend money on your girlfriend, so take it."

"Leila was not my gir- "

"Sure sure. Just call her up and. . . wait - _was_?"

"She was here for a three-year Xenobotony course to receive special training for the mission to Omicron Ceti III. The timetable for which was moved up because of some unrest in the nearby sector of the Neutral Zone. She left six days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes ago."

Chis put down his tea. "So, you _broke up_?"

"Given the nature and projected length of her mission, we terminated our relationship prior to her departure, yes."

"Spock. . ." Chris sighed. "Why didn't you _tell me_?"

"It was a matter of little consequence when compared to my. . . other. . . difficulties. . ."

"So, she wasn't the reason you've been ill?"

"No."

"Not even partially?"

"I did not say that."

"So she _was_ a part of what you've been going through the past few days?"

"A small part, yes."

"But not the main reason?"

"Correct."

Pike picked up his tea again, and drank it quickly. "So, you gonna to tell me what _has_ been going on with you? 'Cause it's been weird, to say the least. You just _don't_ get sick. You don't! Not a single sniffle since I've known you. So _now_ I'm worried about you."

Spock paused, unsure of how much to reveal.

"You were not aware that I have a recurrent problem approximately every six months?"

"I know you've looked a bit haggard once or twice a year. . ." Chris blinked, realizing, "Yeah, I guess it has been every six months or so. . . Maybe if I was one of your professors I'd have noticed the timing pattern - but it isn't a normal sort of "being sick" is it? Your medical record shows that you actually _don't_ get sick. Not often. At _all_. And this wasn't a viral thing or a bacterial infection, or parasitic, or anything like that. I mean, you said as much yourself the first day - on the comm., when you asked if you could come here - that it was "completely noncommunicable". So what _was_ it?"

Spock's mind raced. He had no recollection of saying that to Chris. The Blood Fever did often cause such minor lapses in memory, however, and it did sound like what he would have said.

But how to explain?

_What would mother say?_

He balanced his teacup very carefully on his knee. "In this case, Chris, I find that one of your customarily hyperbolic phrases is unexpectedly appropriate."

"Oh, and which one is that?"

"It is a 'crazy Vulcan thing'." He mimed quotation marks with his fingers in the air, as Chris often did.

Chis laughed. "Okay, fine, I won't pester you - but I still don't forgive you for not telling me you _broke up with your girlfriend_."

"Lelia was not - "

"Was she female?"

Spock blinked.

"Yes."

"Was she your friend?"

"I fail to see the purpose of this line of ques-"

"Just answer - was she or wasn't she?"

He sighed, very lightly, "Yes."

"Was she dating anyone else?"

"If I correctly understand the Terran concept of "dating", then. . . no. Not that I was aware of."

Chris nodded, with finality, "Then she was your girlfriend - whether _you_ think so or not. Trust me. It's a 'crazy Human thing'."

He took that in, finding he had little to say in response, and fell back on what he had found to be the safest thing to say in a conversation with Humans.

"Indeed."

Chris smiled, suddenly eager about something, "So, _that_ means - "

"Captain," he interrupted, _determined_ to have the conversation he had originally intended, "I wish to request your aid in procuring a room among the Academy dormitories."

Chris stopped, clearly confused. "What? Why? I thought Hill House was was an "ideal situation" for you. In fact, two years ago I think I heard you use those very words."

"I did. It was true then. It is not now."

Pike looked incredulous, "Just because a girl left you?"

He held back a sigh, "No, not just for that reason. In fact, also for quite the opposite reason."

The captain's brow furrowed, "Wait. . . _she_ left _you_ \- are you also saying that _you_ left _her_?"

For a moment, T'Pring's face swam before his vision. "No. . . and yes."

Chris sighed, "You're confusing me Spock. . ."

He finished the second cup of tea, and began to clear the tray from the table, "Is my request confusing?"

"No. . . you're a Lieutenant and an astonishingly exemplary student. Not to mention that both sides of your family are as rich as wedding cake. You ought to be eligible for first-rate accommodations. But. . ."

"Please, Captain, do not inquire further. It is a private matter."

"Demmit Spock, I'm just trying to _understand_ \- "

"Well, here's a thing you don't see every day," said Komack, jovially, finally returning from Pike's office, "the future Captain of the _Enterprise_ , and Starfleet's star pupil, arguing." He stood with his hands on his hips, amused.

"Christopher may have been arguing," Spock said, picking up the tea tray, and walking into the kitchen to finish cleaning it, "I, however, was not."

"No, and you _never_ do," Pike growled, "It's incredibly frustrating."

"That is not my fault, Captain."

Chris shrugged off the comment, and turned to Komack.

"You were a long time in there. Where's Mina?"

"Asleep under your desk."

"Lazy girl. It must not have been a very exciting call."

"Yeah, well, Admiral Barnett is not exactly known for his electrifying personality. . ." Komack sat, or rather collapsed, onto the couch Spock had vacated.

Chris laughed, "Ain't _that_ the understatement of the year."

"And now I've got a headache - Yo, Spock?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Does Chris's unacknowledged but admittedly harmless favoritism for all things Vulcan extend to _g'teth-kh'ir_? And I'm sure I'm mispronouncing that, sorry."

"It does, and in fact you are not - the popularity of Vulcan mocha has had the pleasant effect of bringing the proper name fully into the vernacular. Shall I prepare some?"

"You're a saint. . ."

"Me too Spock, if you wouldn't mind," said Chris, turning back to the Admiral with a question about a Federation affiliated star system near the Klingon Empire that had just begun manufacturing its own starships.

Spock did not comment on that, or upon Komack's exaggeration of him, instead tuning out their conversation, and focusing on his own need for nourishment. He dialed the replicator-kettle to steamed milk and set the _g'teth-kh'ir_ grounds up to brew, then turned around and extracted a loaf of bread from the stasis unit. It was a large, sliced loaf of "Signature San Francisco Sourdough" - practically the only bread Pike bought when he was Earthside. It was acceptable. He put three large slices in the toaster, then turned back to the sink to finish rinsing and stacking the now clean tea set.

He had managed this, and to spread two pieces of his hot toast with his preferred condiments before the coffee-maker signaled that the mocha was ready. He quickly finished his preparations, then poured three mugs of the hot, light blue beverage, reasoning that there were worse things in this house that Chris might suggest that Spock drink - Chris had decidedly Human ideas about "getting over" emotionally charged events - but if he had this to "hold on to", as his father often did at ambassadorial functions, then offers of anything else might be forestalled.

He handed the other men their coffee, still ignoring their chatting, and settled himself at the end of the couch, meaning to stay out of the conversation, unobtrusive. He was _very_ hungry. He absorbed himself in planning a simple stew from the ingredients he had noticed in Pike's refrigerator.

"Sourdough, cream cheese and _mustard_?" Komack sounded surprised when he noticed the plate on Spock's knee, and wrinkled his nose at the sight.

"I find the combination palatable, Admiral," he said, taking a bite.

"Hmph." Komack grunted. "Well, Humans do say "There's no accounting for taste." You got any sayings like that on Vulcan?"

"'Opinion is a spectrum and we are the colors'?" he offered, chewing slowly, "Or perhaps, "Measure not the needs of the hungry by the warmth of your cloak," would be more appropriate."

"No no, the first one was good," Komack smiled, "Vulcans and their sayings, hey Chris?"

The Captain focused on him for the first time in several minutes, and started, noticing something.

"Spock, I thought you couldn't touch food with your hands. . ."

He held back a sigh, realizing just how few times, despite their friendship, that he and Chris had actually been in close day-to-day contact. "It is a social custom on Vulcan not to touch our food while eating it - of course while preparing food some contact is almost unavoidable - and practically every cultural group on Vulcan follows it. The practice is a result of our total rejection of our barbarous past, when there were no utensils save knives, and killing was not only necessary, it was encouraged. And not just for food."

"But. . ." Komack looked even more confused than Chris.

"Bread is the obvious exception, Admiral. Bread requires agriculture - fertile soil, a steady source of water, time, skill, settled homes, and peace in the surrounding lands - in short, civilization. To touch bread is to touch the very basis of what made us what we are today."

"You had agriculture for millennia before the Revolutionary Period, didn't you?" Komack asked, "Surely. . ."

"I was explaining the symbolism and function, Admiral, not giving an historical dissertation."

"Plus, being able to eat with your hands on occasion makes a boatload of things a lot easier," Chris said, winking at him.

"Indeed."

Komack nodded, "Logical."

"As always," Chris grinned.

"Besides," Spock continued, surprising himself with his talkativeness, "Eating exclusively with utensils is merely a custom - not a law. Much like our vegetarianism, or our stance against intoxicants; they are all personal choices, rather than lawful requirements."

"Riiiiight," Pike drawled, "Is that why when you order bacon and eggs from the replicator everyone on a Vulcan ship looks at you funny?"

"I do not order bacon and eggs, Captain."

Chris snorted, "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Even when it was _replicated_ \- as in 'No pigs, turkeys, cows or chickens were harmed in the making of this breakfast. . .' " Chris shook his head, " _Logic_."

"Logic does not prevent bias, Captain. Nor can it."

"All I wanted was a familiar meal!"

"Indeed. And in doing so you inadvertently stumbled into what was then a "hot topic" in Vulcan politics."

"How can _replicators_ be political?"

"For a race of vegetarians and pacifists, it was not unexpected or illogical for replicated meat to become a bone of contention."

Chris blinked, then laughed somewhat grudgingly at the drily delivered pun. "Anyone ever tell you it's a good thing you didn't follow in your father's footsteps?"

"Almost constantly, Captain." He took another bite of his toast, attempting to end the conversation.

Practically all of this had obviously gone over Komack's head. He cleared his throat, "Um. . . How did you two ever even _meet_? I mean, I know that Chris was stationed aboard a Vulcan ship for a while before he managed to recruit you somehow, and that you blew the top off the entrance exams to the _freaking VSA_ before even _taking_ the Starfleet one - but how did. . . ?" he gestured between the two of them, simple curiosity on his face.

Spock exchanged a look with Chris.

"Do you want to tell it, or should I?" Chris's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Captain, I find that your telling not only manages to be increasingly exaggerated every time, you also change the facts with each iteration."

"Yeah, and you make it so boring that an Andorian glacier sounds more exciting."

"I have observed Andorian glaciers, and the sounds they make often _are_ "more exciting" than the story of how we met." He took the last bite of his toast, chewing and swallowing before reluctantly gesturing for Chris to go ahead. "Very well. I find I am curious as to which aspects of the story you will focus on this time - seeing that you are knowingly telling it in my presence."

Chris blushed, "Hey, I _apologized_ for that!"

"Indeed, but Dean Braddock has never looked at me the same way since you told her - "

"No, I don't want to know this part!" the Admiral exclaimed, turning to point at Spock, "You, hush. That's an order." He turned to Chris, "You, the story - no frills. Also an order. Okay?"

Chris nodded, subdued, but still with a glint of mischief in his eyes. . . "Alright, I'll tell it, and Spock can jump in and correct me if I get too. . . _hyperbolic_ \- that work for everyone?"

Spock nodded, solemnly.

"Right," Chris sighed, remembering, "It was, oh, four, five years ago now?"

"Four years, six months, two days - "

"Right right, anyway, it was during that big push for Vulcan and Earth to pool their resources in the quadrant, and for VSEF to merge with Starfleet."

"A singularly Human desire, I might add, Admiral. The Vulcans would not have thought of such a thing."

Komack laughed, "I guess that's why it never happened. . ."

"Indeed."

"Yeah, well," Chris continued, "Everyone had a hard enough time just accepting the suggestion, so as some kind of intermediate experiment, I guess, Starfleet stepped up their officer exchange program. Of course there had been a steady amount of collaboration between Starfleet and VSEF for decades, but only one or two people a year actually officially worked directly on a ship belonging to the other organization. And there was I, fresh from the _Yorktown_ and three years in deep space - not to mention more than 20 years experience overall - thinking I had seen pretty nearly all there was to see, and lo and behold, my next assignment was for a year with VSEF - as third officer on the _T'Pai_. Good ship, by the way, crew of about 80, with the estimable Captain Torvol presiding. . . but I was _third_ officer - knocked down to a Lieutenant Commander and fourth in command when I had been a captain for eight years, mind you - _eight years_. I found out later that there were fifteen more captains who had been given the same treatment. _Fifteen_."

"It was logical to initially place the Human officers in secondary bridge positions aboard the participating Vulcan ships, Captain. Long experience with one type of ship does not automatically infer competence with another. They were placed as they were so that they might garner some experience before they were promoted to positions where unfamiliarity with something as simple as placement of the controls, or the names of his shipmates, could have disastrous consequences."

"Yeah, I know that _now_ , Spock, but you Vulcans have a habit of not explaining yourselves unless asked, while at the same time giving the impression that you don't want to _be_ asked. At the time it seemed like a calculated insult. Even you have to admit it was handled brusquely - to say the least."

Spock shrugged slightly, admittedly not displeased with how Chris was relating the story so far. "Not all Vulcans are as diplomatic as my father has learned to be, it is true."

"And I happen to know at least ten Vulcan officers participating in the exchange were given Starfleet positions of Commander or higher - right out of the gate."

"That is irrelevant, Captain. An officer exchange allows members of each organization to experience the other. This includes customs and philosophies, not merely members of another race or culture. What seems fair or logical to Starfleet is in many cases diametrically opposed to what is considered common sense in the Vulcan Space Exploration Fleet. This is why officer exchanges exist. Starfleet treated the Vulcan officers as they would treat their own. VSEF did as well. I happen to agree that the matter could have been handled with greater aplomb, but I also know that there was a marked lack of resistance to the venture at the time - a rare instance of such a lack, incidentally."

Chris shrugged, then continued, "So, anyway, there I was, reporting for duty, the lone Human in a long line of Vulcans, waiting to meet our fearless leader - I had heard of Torvol, even then - but instead, in walks this skinny kid, eighteen if he's a day, looking like he's never set his rear in a Captain's chair in all his life - "

"At that point, I had not. You se-"

Chris ignored him, "- and what does he say to us? Well, first he gets all serious - more serious than usual, you understand - and he gives us all the hand salute thing and says - "Greetings colleagues, I am Acting Captain Spock. I will be trading duties with Captain Torvol for the first two months of our mission. Dismissed." Just like _that_."

"I said considerably more than - "

"And _then_ \- and in a tone of voice that made it clear that The Illogical Human must be constrained at all costs - he orders me to his office - this Teenage Mutant Ninja Vulcan _calls me into his office_ and _makes me salute him_ \- and only then did he explain what the deal was, Vulcan policy and all, and what was up."

"I am a hybrid, not a mutan- "

"Turns out, he had only just made Second Officer himself, but Torvol thought that with Spock's "broader experience with Humans" it might make my first couple of months easier if he was Captain, and Torvol was First Officer."

"And I believe the results bore out the truth of tha-"

"And then after two months we'd all shuffle back around, with Torvol as Captain, me as First Officer, and Spock as Second Officer - as though a starship was a flipping checkerboard!"

"If you will _let me speak_ , Captain," Spock said, holding back his frustration, "I will tell the Admiral that it is a common exercise aboard Vulcan ships to shuffle the bridge duties during non-critical missions. This prevents laxity in the most common tasks that can be asked of any bridge officer during a crisis - it is good to assure that the Science officer can pilot the ship, or the Captain can sit at Ops, or the Communications officer can properly aim the phaser banks - and so on."

"But Spock, our mission was _not_ 'non-critical'!"

"It was for the first two months."

Chris shrugged, "I suppose. . ."

"And I firmly believe that those two months more fully prepared you for the admittedly highly successful role you played as First Officer during the rest of the mission."

Pike grinned, "Well, anyway - that's the "shocking twist" Admiral - when we first met, Spock was _my_ Captain, not the other way around."

The Admiral grunted a laugh. "Fascinating."

"Ain't it just?" Chris finished his _g'teth-kh'ir_ , and proceeded to fold his hands behind his head, the mischievous glint in his eyes returning with double force. "I still owe him for that call to his office, though, and fortunately, tonight I have an excuse to repay in full. . ."

Spock did not bother to conceal his consternation, "Sir, what are you planning?"

"Ha! You see, Spock? All it takes is one threat, and I'm "Sir" and not "Chris", like I should be," he laughed again, triumphantly, "I promise it isn't anything terribly taxing - I just want you to participate in a _Human_ custom now. Oh, and you're invited too, of course, Admiral."

Spock narrowed his eyes at Pike, "I am entirely in the dark as to what -"

"Spock, you've been on Earth for more than two years now, without loosening up _once_ ; you've just been sick for a week, and you _just broke up with your girlfriend_." A significant glance Spock did not understand passed between Chris and Komack, "I'd say it's high time you accepted at least _one_ Human ritual."

"May I assume it has something to do with the Human notion of "getting over" terminated relationships?"

"Got it in one, my friend."

He gave a very small sigh, "What does this "Human ritual" entail?"

"Well, first, a dinner with your friends - preferably one you can't afford, but you've thrown caution to the winds for once."

"Chris, I do not think - "

"Hey hey, don't interrupt. Right, next - Your friends buy you some great, luscious, amazing. . ." Chris looked at him closely for a split second, ". . . dessert. You know, the kind that sends you into a tailspin from the rush. . . sugar rush, I mean. . . but it's so good you still can't bring yourself to regret it the next day."

At this, Spock heard Komack snort. He had a distinct impression that Chris had meant something else entirely. . . . . .

Oh.

No.

 _**That** _ _is_ _**not** _ _going to happen._

But Chris had moved on, "And then you go to a bar and get just plastered enough to get into a barfight, or whatever kind of fight that you can get into - a real bust-up, with lots of flying furniture - until the cops arrive. The trick is to make sure you don't actually _start_ the fight, and try to have a nice Admiral or two around to bail you out." Komack snorted again, but less incredulously.

For a moment, Spock wondered what it was about intentional wanton violence that Komack found less distasteful than paying for sexual favors. . .

"Preferably this stage ends with an encounter with a cute nurse or two to bandage you up."

Spock raised his eyebrows, "An Admiral, a Captain and a Lieutenant go to a bar? It sounds like the beginning of one of your Terran jokes. Is the fight supposed to represent the proverbial 'punch line'?"

Chris blinked, and Komack stifled a laugh.

"Annnnd then it's off to a swanky club that sells nothing but hard drinks and plays its music even harder - the kind of place that makes you forget your name and inhibitions on the dance floor, and you probably end up puking your guts out in the toilet, but whatever, you've forgotten the bitch who left you, even if only for a moment. Whaddaya say?"

"The vast majority of this "ritual" strikes me as extremely unpleasant."

"Perfect, let's go."

"I do not get a say in this expedition?"

"Nope. Not when you didn't get off your half-Human butt and actually _tell me_ that you'd broken up with your girlfriend."

"Leila was _not_ -"

"Whatever, look, I'm Human, Mack is Human, you're half-Human - we have to do this, or we aren't good friends."

"The Vulcan definition of "friends" does not entail - "

"Listen to the man, Spock," said Komack. "Now, I _could_ make this an order, but I won't - go out tonight. Have some fun. Forget school for a little while. It'd do you good." He shook his head. "You do so much, but, really, you don't do nearly enough." At Spock's confused expression, the admiral sighed, "You always do the same things, Spock. _Think_ about shaking things up a little, okay?"

It was the first even slightly logical thing the Admiral had said. Spock felt himself weakening slightly.

Forgetting did sound terribly good.

 _Thoroughly, entirely,_ _**too** _ _good._

And he knew from experience that his usual meditations would not comfort him the first night after T'Pring's fever.

A night out with Chris could not possibly be _more_ upsetting than that, could it?

Spock sighed audibly, "Very well - however, I refuse to intentionally participate in violence of any kind, I do not intend to purposely induce myself to vomit, and I do _not_ require any form of purchased sexual release." He visibly shuddered at the thought of doing any combination of the three in one night - on _purpose_. He wished to forget the part he had played in two women's pain - not cause _more_ pain to himself or others.

Another incomprehensible glance passed between the Captain and the Admiral.

"Fine," said Chris, "We'll even let you pick the restaurant."

"Why do not I find that at all reassuring?"

"No idea," shrugged Pike, jumping up and making for the hall closet, "That shirt and those slacks you're wearing will do fine, but we'll probably be out late, so you'll need this," Chris rummaged in the closet for a few moments and pulled out a soft brown leather jacket, shiny with wear. "Here, put this on," he said, as he peremptorily threw it at him, "We're about the same size, and this will attract much less attention than any of those aggressively ugly sweaters you wear so often."

Pike then extracted another, newer, darker jacket for himself.

Spock gingerly examined the garment he now held. It was cut in a classic streamlined style that would, indeed, fit him, but. . . it was so. . . _Human_. . . "Captain, I am not sure. . ."

"Well, I am. Put it on, Spock."

Grudgingly, he did.

Pike stopped his own preparations and frankly stared at him.

"Huh, maybe that _isn't_ more subtle than your Vulcan Uglies," said Chris, a strange look on his face, "Now all you need is a comb in your back pocket and the ability to say "Eyyyyy" in a suitably cheesy accent. . ."

Both he and Komack stared at Chris, uncomprehending.

Pike sighed, "And the growth of an entirely different taste in classic entertainment, of course. No matter, you'll still be chasing them off with a stick."

"Why would I wish to -"

Chris interrupted with a short, sharp whistle for Mina, picked up her tractor-leash from the bar, and slipped his ID and credit chits into his pocket.

"No time for questions now, Spock - we're on a mission." He knelt as Mina trotted in, and he activated the tractor-link on her collar. "Now then, where do you want to go for dinner?"

Spock closed his eyes for a minute, centering himself.

 _If I can survive nine days alone in the desert, and the subsequent death of my best friend at the time, I can endure this night. If I can remain sane through T'Pring's endless instability, I can accept Christopher's and Komack's Human enthusiasm. They_ _**are** _ _only trying to help. . ._

"There is a new establishment I have been meaning to try. It is called " _Kau'nshaya_ " and it specializes in a unique cuisine called "Vulcan Fusion". Also, my mother is an old friend of the proprietors."

"Gem of a woman, your mother," said Chris.

"I am inclined to agree, Captain."

"Have you told _her_ you broke up with Leila?"

Spock sighed, "No. I have not yet had the chance."

"Well, make sure you do," Chris pulled out his comm. "You got directions to this "cow-nosh-area" place?"

"If your flitter's global placement maps have been updated within the past month, then it will know the best route to take." He was, quite honestly, not "up to" the task of narrating directions at this time. "However, I believe we would garner the best result from it if _I_ pronounced the name of our destination."

"You got it," Pike said, using the touchpad by the door to turn on the house alarm and lock the windows, "You want to pilot too?"

Ordinarily, he would have been "all over that", as Pike's would say, but today. . . "No, thank you Chris. I am still tired from my. . . ordeal. . ."

"Hmp, you must be," said Komack. "The only cadets who have more flight hours than you are the ones specifically training to be pilots."

The Admiral climbed in shotgun as Pike put Mina into the backseat of the flitter with a crisp "Up girl!"

Spock told the flitter where to go, and settled in beside the nervous and pacing Mina, who hated all cars on principle, and the back seat of Chris's small flitter in particular. She nosed insistently at his hand, her nose cool and damp against his skin. He was sitting as he always did, shoulders back, very proper. He attempted not to become annoyed. For a moment he contemplated how accurately she was portraying his inner state - a nearly schizophrenic uncertainty in the present situation, but still looking for comfort from an acceptable person. It was almost eerie.

He was no longer annoyed.

_This animal. . ._

She eventually resigned herself to the enclosed space of the flitter, resting her golden-brown and white striped muzzle on his lap. He put his hand on her head, and she quickly fell asleep.

An ancient poem he had learned in school ran though his mind -

_This animal with such sentient hue,_

_Cries out mutely to the ebbing light,_

_While gods of fearsome calm imbue,_

_Him with deadly dreams of night,_

_That draw an endless end,_

_Tight to honor, bound_

_To find, and spend,_

_His one soul,_

_To sing,_

_Once_

It was an untitled poem in the archaic and particularly difficult to translate Vulcan form of _tev-torsvii'far-doth_ \- the Vulcan variation of an _ottava rima_. It was unsigned, as well, but most likely it was from the Vulcan Revolutionary Period, and very possibly written by a direct follower of Surak himself. Perhaps even Spokh. . . the original, legendary Spokh. But that was mere speculation.

Still, for years it had been his favorite piece of lyricism.

Spock closed his eyes, leaning back into the soft cushions of Chris's flitter, stroking Mina'a silky ears.

One day, back before he had been born, his mother had found the piece of ancient vellum crumbling away in a forgotten folio at one of Shi'Kahr's many libraries, had taken it home, and had managed to translate the obscure Ana'khana words quite brilliantly into the modern vernacular of Common Vulcan. And from there, also into Standard.

That had been the first and only project of his mother's that the Great Shi'oren had ever acknowledged. That one time they had praised her talents, and had incorporated the poem and its two translations into their advanced curriculum, entirely without question. They had been impressed with her work, and grateful for the discovery of so important a piece. Even the Vulcan High Council had approved.

The Classics and Literature department of Shi'Kahr's Great Shi'oren had made it mandatory reading for nearly twenty-five years by now.

And yet. . . he had not known anything about Amanda's role in its discovery and translation until he had joined VSEF and had spoken of it to a fellow Science officer who had been a year ahead of him at the Great Shi'oren.

"Of course it is your most preferred poem," the officer had said, "It is proof your mother is equal to a Vulcan."

The man had not said this maliciously, but rather with the conviction that such a sentiment was true.

It still made Spock feel like an unmitigated outsider.

When he had next taken leave, he had gone immediately home and asked his mother, straight out, why had she never told him about her one great honor in Vulcan culture? Why had she never insisted her name be attached to such a find? Why had she not capitalized upon so great a thing? She might at least have made it generally _known_. Why had she never given him ammunition against all those who spoke of her in derogatory terms, implying she had never done anything beneficial for Vulcan society?

Why did she still make him feel like an outsider? Though, to be sure, it was through no fault of her own. . .

She had turned off her computer console, for she had been working when he had demanded an audience with her, and she had taken his arm, gently leading him to the Human style sofa that occupied her private office.

"I never told you, Spock," she had said, very gently, "Because I thought it was a perfect thing for you to discover on your own, and in your own time - a beautiful thing, haunting, mysterious, triumphant. How many times can someone say that they have a _wonderful_ secret in their past? Lovely things are not often hidden - people want to show them. It is ugly things that people want to hide, or pretend they don't exist." She crossed her arms, "And as for "ammunition", it has always been there for you, if you had ever looked hard enough. I'll have you know that dozens of _other_ Vulcan schools have accepted my work, at least five Vulcan museums have consulted with me, I've worked with the Diplomatic Corps _and_ with VSEF, and I am, at this very moment, in the middle of a project for the VSA. The _VSA_ , Spock. Recognition from the Great Shi'oren _does_ matter, but not so much that anything else I've done is devalued. I have never been idle - or felt myself useless. Though, there _is_ usually a disturbing bias against most of my opinions. . ." She had sighed then, sorrowful or frustrated he had not been certain. "You're going to come across so many dark or evil things in your life, Spock, I just wanted to be sure you discovered _one_ beautiful thing. Just _one_ thing, _sa-fu_ , just once, for sure. That old poem was not really a secret - it was a _present_."

It was on that day that he had ceased to be a child, moving fully into the world of mature perspectives.

_There are things it is good to discover._

But by the same token, there were things which ought to be told, upfront, to get them out and over.

"Christopher?" he said, interrupting Komack's latest good-natured rant.

"Yes, Spock?"

"I apologize for not informing you of the termination of my relationship with Leila."

A broad grin appeared on Chris's face, "That's alright, Spock - from now on, just try and remember that I'm _here for you_ , okay?"

"Now that I am more fully aware of the meaning you attribute to that phrase, I will endeavor to be more inclusive with the concept."

Chris's grin turned to a smirk as the flitter pulled into the parking allotment for _Kau'nshaya_.

* * *

Spock had been right, as usual. This place was worth checking out.

From outside it was a fairly simple, ordinaryish looking place - A blocky gray building with the huge doors most restaurants had. It was made only slightly interesting by having asymmetrically-shaped oval windows scattered in an odd pattern across the walls. Other than that, there was little that was special about the outside, except that the light that streamed from those windows was of a strangely rich red-gold hue. A "sunset" light, Pike thought, only it was past sundown, and anyway, Sol never gave off _quite_ that shade of red, even during brilliant sunsets. It gave the building just a tinge of alien-ness.

Spock led the way through the great double-doors, and into the foyer - a sizable room, crowded all along its edge with benches made of an interesting faux-stone. And nearly every bench was packed full of people waiting for a table. Indeed, a moderately long line existed to even speak with the hostess. Pike saw, to his relief, that she was Human. At least there wouldn't be the danger of cultural entanglements before they had even ordered drinks. . .

They stood in line, and waited. He took in the room.

The walls were surfaced with a rough-textured red sandstone veined faintly with peach. A few incredibly artistic desert-scape holos were scattered here and there on the walls, and the arched ceiling was covered with a very striking purplish-brown tile. It looked almost as glossy as glass, and it glittered with golden highlights along the joints.

_Neat._

He looked over into the main dining room. Some of the tables were low, dark-lacquered affairs, surrounded by very comfortable looking overstuffed cushions - and some were tall Human-style tables with chairs, each set apparently molded from the same dappled burnt-orange plasti-granite as the benches here in the foyer. There were also occasional large alcoves, curtained with sheer, pale drapes that partially hid the more private dinner tables, which were all the low, cushioned-seated type, from what he could see. There were no plants anywhere - though Chris supposed he ought to have expected that - but there were tiny cascade fountains at each table, glowing with some inner luminescence he couldn't quite explain at this distance. Several clear, water-filled columns were scattered throughout the main room too - bubbles floated though them, from floor to ceiling, and moving colored lights inside the top and base gleamed on the bubbles. Indeed, _everything_ seemed to float upon the dark gray, oiled soapstone of the floor. Chris, prodding at it with his toe, assumed it was tile, but, oddly, he could see no joints anywhere, as if the entire place was floored with one single piece of stone. The light, which from outside had seemed so alien, was warm and homey now, softened through the screens of the filigree lanterns that hung everywhere, just beyond range of a tall customer's head.

Everything was slightly rounded, and asymmetrical. The decor did not so much suggest a cave as it did a mine. It was all deliberate, sculpted, almost gemlike, but purposeful.

 _And_ _**safe** _ _._

Odd, perhaps, but that was strongest impression Chris was taking from all this.

_We are safe here._

Huh. Funny.

But funny in a _totally_ Vulcan way, of course.

Anyway, if it was a selling tactic, then it seemed to be working, as the Thursday night crowd was as large as the Saturday night crowd often was in other, less popular places.

For several minutes he was slightly afraid there wouldn't be a table for them without a prohibitively long wait, but when it was finally their turn, Spock didn't have to say more than ten words to the hostess before she was on her comm., apparently speaking in rapid tones to the owners of the place.

It looked as if being the son of the Vulcan Ambassador came with perks.

"If you will wait over there for just a moment," said the pretty Human girl, her long black hair done up in hundreds of tiny braids arranged in a distinctly Vulcan manner, "T'Pekh would appreciate seeing you before you are seated."

Spock nodded solemnly at her, and she turned her attention to the next party that had entered.

"T'Pekh and her husband Sorvol worked for many years at _Insight_ ," said Spock, conversationally, as they seated themselves on the only empty bench left in the foyer. "You may have heard of it - it is one of the more famous restaurants in Shi'Kahr."

"I have," said Mack, "Never been, though."

"And whenever I was in Shi'Kahr on leave, your mother insisted I stay at your parent's estate - remember?" Chris smiled, lightly punching Spock on the shoulder. "She's an extremely good cook herself, and she knows it. I don't think I ever had anything but home-cooked meals the whole time I was there. Never heard of this _Insight_ place. . ."

Spock indicated he understood with his signature almost-imperceptible Vulcan shrug. "It is known for its specific catering to offworld palates and sensibilities. Sorvol was their master chef for nearly five decades, until recently, when he and T'Pekh decided to open this establishment. My mother made their acquaintance many years ago, whilst my father was on an offworld assignment that she could not accompany him upon, and she took the opportunity to explore the city. She does not often mention Sorvol or T'Pekh to me, but I do recall her being quite enthusiastic over Sorvol's signature dish of rice _pen't'af_ , with _ki'slar_ infused lavosh."

"Well, I'm looking forward to it," said Chris, admittedly surprised at how talkative Spock was being. For someone usually so impossibly reticent, most of his conversation tonight positively amounted to _gushing_. Well, gushing for Spock, anyway. . .

_Eh, kid's been sick, let him talk._

A Vulcan woman wearing a very plain dress with a nametag that bore the logo of the restaurant approached them from one of the side rooms. Or rather, approached _him_.

"Your animal is not allowed in the dining area," she said, looking at Mina, "For sanitary reasons. Unless there is a medical purpose. . ."

"No, no, she's not a guide dog." He handed Mina over reluctantly, but the young woman was quick to reassure him.

"We have a very comprehensive Pet Room. Always at least two attendants, many toys, and very clean, comfortable cages for animals that need to be separated from the others. There is even an outdoor area, with grass." The young Vulcan's eyes lit up, the reaction of a desert-dweller to whom grass still held an alien fascination. "There are three other dogs there tonight, and quite amiable ones, I believe. There are also five Betazoid _hemar_ , two Andorian _deyth_ and one very sedate Orion _fth'oc_. She will have good company and be well cared for. Do you want her fed, as well?"

"Sure, why not?" They were all out on the town, let Mina feast too. "All her information, serving sizes and preferences are programmed into her collar - and you can replicate whatever you need to, she doesn't mind rep food."

"I will see to her, good sir." She left with Mina, who glanced back at the three of them, but went willingly, probably scenting the other dogs already. She was a social creature. . .

"Ahnd so diis ist dah son of dah Layday Amandah," said a deep, heavily accented, and very imposing voice. All three of them stood as one, turning towards the archway that led to the dining room. "Ahnd you halve taken your own time to viseet us, halve you not?"

It was quite impossible to think that such a voice could be coming from such a tiny, shrunken woman, whose tall fancy headdress and long skirted robes seemed to weigh more than she herself did, but there it was. There _she_ was, as large as life, and twice as alive, somehow. She _owned_ the room, literally and figuratively.

An. . . _important_ sort of look came over Spock, "Greetings, T'Pekh," he said, giving her a Vulcan salute, "I am a guest within your house. My friends and I claim the honors of hospitality."

The ancient looking woman stood straighter in her traditional Vulcan robes, obviously appreciating the formality of Spock's greeting. Her eyes flicked over Mack, and then over Pike himself. He flinched a little at her intense glance.

"Your frehends? Indeet. Fhollow me."

Without looking back to see if they followed her, she made her way through the main dining room. There was a proprietary set to her head which lent an increased intensity to her already very _present_ presence. Every set of patrons either noticed her, or reacted to her in some way, with a slight turns of their heads in her direction, or with small pauses in conversation as she passed by.

It would be impossible _not_ to follow her.

They made quick time to back of the restaurant, and she led them to a large corner alcove, obviously unoccupied. It was different than the other alcoves Chris had noticed, as you had to go up three steps to get to this one. T'Pekh swept up the smooth black stairs, caught back the curtains, and gave Spock a sharp look. The kid actually _hurried_ to seat himself, Mack quickly following suit. Chris did too, but a mite slower. Interested as he was in this little drama, at that moment, the room interested him more.

The alcove was large, but not excessively so. It probably could comfortably seat fifteen or sixteen, if they didn't elbow too much. The light was low, but the lanterns were well placed, close above the table. The nearest little grey crystal water feature registered their presence and started, lighting up from the inside and making a very nice gentle trickling noise. Chris smiled, ignoring the stern look T'Pekh was giving him. Surprisingly, this alcove was floored with wood. Real, light-grained, beautifully polished, natural wood. Once Chris got seated, he looked out through the room's sheer curtains. You could see over nearly the whole dining room from here, like you were part of its community, but also above it, both at once.

Only in a Vulcan atmosphere would such a room seem luxurious, but it clearly was meant to be.

After T'Pekh had watched them to their seats, she spoke again. "You shall not eat in dah main rhoom, no. For you, diis speshial table." She gestured to the opposite wall. "Here. With dah whindow, you see."

Chris, so taken up with the inside of this place, had almost forgotten the outside. The big oval window showed a beautiful starry sky and lovely light-starred skyline. . . Chris blinked as he realized he had not seen any other private booths with windows. . .

Odd.

_No - alien. . ._

"Ahnd shall you be truhsting my _ahdun_ tonight for your meal, or will you be having dah ahdventures of your own?"

"We are your guests, T'Pekh," said Spock, with almost incredible solemnity, "For politeness sake, we must make our own journey."

"Bhut we are not upon Vhulcan, no. It ist I who am dah guhest - I ahnd my husbhand - here in diis place it ist whee who jhourney, yes? Ahnd will you truhst us fhor daht which whee do dah bhest?"

"We are in your hands, T'Pekh. We can but acquiesce."

She nodded a tiny approving nod, and turned to the two Human men, "Ahnd do either of you be having dah allergees, or dah religion restrictions?

They both shook their heads, having been stricken quite dumb by all this purely Vulcan give-and-take.

"Goodt, then dare ist no confliction. Ahnd I shall leave you to T'Lath," she pronounced it Ti-lot-h, "For she ist dah bhest of dah whoman servers I halve - ahnd how whould dah mhen be fed witout dah whomen?" A clear gleam of amusement winked in her eyes, and, at last, she did not seem imposing - rather the sort of woman who could. . . _And did_. . . own the beautiful, strange, alien, yet welcoming restaurant they were sitting in.

Spock gave her the hand salute again, and she left, with as much of a smile on her face as any Vulcan could admit to having.

"Quite a personality, that woman," said Mack, "Never seen anyone like her."

He did not make it sound like a compliment.

Before Spock could answer, Chris jumped in, "She is that. I can see why your mother likes her." He gave a quick look to Komack - he was _not_ going to insult Spock's people by teasing too much, no matter how good-natured he meant the ribbing to be.

Spock, however, conspicuously refused to notice.

"Indeed, Admiral," he said, quite his usual calm self, "No doubt you noticed her unique accent. Both she and her husband originate from the Xir'Tan province on Vulcan - our smallest and most isolated continent. It is something of a mixture between your Australia and Madagasc - "

Here he was interrupted by the waitress T'Lath. Wordlessly, she placed a large ceramic jug on the table between them, and then distributed three teacups around before lifting the pitcher again, and filling the cups. " _Bargot'ehk_ for the gentlemen," she said, simply, "I will return with the sweet course momentarily." She gave a small, flat smile that Chris was sure she had practiced in a mirror, " _Na'shayalar be'hai'la_."

" _Wehk-les'ek, T'Lath_ ," said Spock.

She left them, and they sat in silence.

The tea was the usual unappetizing murky gray that Chris remembered - he knew it was made with salted butter, sweet milk, and dark-roasted _bar-got_. He sipped, the flavor taking him back to the red stones and strong, heavy winds; the strange haunting sights and sounds and _smells_ of Vulcan. . . He sighed. It had been far too long since he had let himself be nostalgic about a place. . . _any_ place.

_Might as well think of Vulcan. . . couldn't hurt. . . much, anyway._

And it would certainly hurt less than some other memories. . .

Mack was quiet next to him, drinking tentatively from his cup, but seeming to enjoy it - a little at least. He didn't even ask for the meaning of what the server had said in Vulcan, or what a "sweet course" was doing at the beginning of a meal. Well. . . maybe Chris's unspoken warning had gotten through. Mack was not a fool, despite his constant affectation of truculent and slightly fatuous jocularity. He was certainly restraining himself.

Spock did not speak either, but at least that was fairly normal. Though, he did wonder what the kid had been in the middle of saying, and why he hadn't continued once T'Lath had left.

Ah well. Maybe he was waiting for the first course to arrive - though, if Spock had decided to go true to form, he would be silent throughout the meal, as tradition demanded.

Chris shrugged inwardly, and took another sip of tea.

Having been in the company of Vulcans before, he already knew the progression such a formal meal would take - the sweet course, the salty course, the sour course and the bitter course, interspersed with small "color" courses that blended each main flavor into the next. The "blue" course - usually a cold drink - between sweet and salty; the "orange" course - usually a small cold _hors d'oeuvre_ -like thing - between salty and sour; the "violet" course - most likely raw sliced vegetables with a cream-based sauce - between sour and bitter; and the "gold" course - normally a hot drink - to end the progression and the meal. And of course, there would be the smooth flow of the tea through it all, binding it together.

Unsurprisingly, such a complicated presentation was actually considered the most logical way to serve a meal. He had never agreed with that particular sentiment.

_But then, I rarely do agree with Vulcans._

Maybe that was why he liked them so much.

T'Lath reappeared with large tray laden with the first course and color. There were three bowls of an oatmeal colored mush, a plate of golden-brown flatbread that had been sprinkled with green-black seeds, a small pot of clear amber jelly, and three tall, narrow glasses of a brilliant magenta juice Chris vaguely remembered, but could not immediately identify.

"The Chef's signature _pen't'af_ , made with Terran jasmine rice," said T'Lath as she served them, "Lavosh with _ki'slar_ seeds and jam, and _naric_ juice mixed with the pulp of ruby grapefruit."

Chris hesitated for a second. "The color course. . . is. . . _isn't_. . . blue?"

T'Lath gave the same flat smile again, "It is the Time Of The Festival Of Surak. We change the color progression to reflect this. Magenta, then black, then green, then blue."

"Interesting."

"I am gratified you find it so."

She lifted the now empty tray, and left.

The _pen't'af_ was a sweet and creamy rice pudding, and the _ki'slar_ jelly might have been golden yellow, but it tasted almost exactly like ripe strawberries. The lavosh was warm and freshly crisp, the seeds it was sprinkled with giving it an interesting textured crunch.

He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until right now.

It was several minutes before Chris paid any attention to anything except the food, but when he looked up at last, he was instantly mystified. Mack was clearly enjoying the meal just as much as he was so far, but Spock - who _had_ to be hungry, given that he had scarcely eaten anything for the past five and a half days - Spock, the proper, the young, the go-getter, wasn't eating.

Chris slowed his chewing, very worried. Spock was just _sitting there_ , but he knew he couldn't ask. He swallowed, and took a sip of the brightly colored juice.

 _Mm._ Naric. _That's right. Pomegranate-ish, but not as sweet. . . must be the grapefruit._

Spock still sat there, a stricken look on his face.

He had no idea what to say, but he had the feeling that if he didn't say _something_ , the kid was going to burst into flames before his very eyes.

"Spock?" He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous for no good reason. "Why did you tell our server _wehk-les'ek_ instead of _th'i-oxalra_? I've heard you use both before, but isn't _th'i-oxalra_ more usual?"

"It. . . it is. . ." Spock replied, his voice very faint, "I. . . I had forgotten. . ."

"Forgotten? Forgotten what?"

"Today."

"What do you mean, forgotten today? Today is today - you were sick, and now you're not, and we are celebrating that fact."

"No, Captain, today. . . today is _gad'r'tas_ , in the midst of the Festival of Surak. _Wehk-les'ek_ is one of the remembrance phrases we say during this time. . . and I _forgot_."

"Obviously not, since you said it."

"It was an instinctual reaction. . . I did not remember until she mentioned it. . . I have never forgotten before. . ."

"But so what, Spock? You've been ill! If that isn't an excuse for forgetting a calendar date that's mostly only important to people lightyears away from you, then I don't know what is."

The kid sighed, actually sighed, and turned to him, very forlorn, "Captain, have you ever forgotten an important calendar date? Christmas, perhaps? Your own birthday? _Ever_?"

Chris took another sip of the _naric_ juice before replying. "Yes, I did forget Christmas once, actually. Darndest thing."

"And how did you react to the occurrence?"

"I went to my cabin and slept." He spread some jam on a piece of the flatbread, gesturing with it as he explained. "You see, Spock, I had been on a six-month patrol of a very touchy section of the Neutral Zone, and no one on the whole ship felt like celebrating anything other than just simply being alive. Once we were finally off alert and safely on our way home, three-quarters of the crew went and partied so hard we ended up spending our first two weeks in spacedock just cleaning up the galley. And the rest of us went right to bed and slept for two days straight. Damn good thing nothing interesting happened to us, since there was no one to even pilot the ship for a lot of that trip home. I don't think any of us realized that that first day was Christmas Eve - though it made a handy excuse for the mess we made. I sure as heck didn't feel bad for forgetting, because most of our families had postponed their Christmas parties to wait for us anyway. And those who hadn't were the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas. You see, remembering something like that wasn't our _job_ at that point. We did what _was_ our job, and left other people to remember the important dates. Stress does things to your memory - it makes you focus on what is really important - and there's no shame in that."

"But I am Vulcan. . ."

"You've been _sick_."

"I am also a direct descendant of Surak."

"Yeah, who has been straight up _delusional_ with a fever for the majority portion of five of the last seven days. Are you telling me that doesn't even _count_?"

"It. . . it is as though. . . for a time. . . I forgot my own name - or who I _am_."

"Well, yeah, brain fever can do that to a guy."

"It was not brain fever."

Chris sighed, more to himself than at the kid's troubles, "Look, Spock, if you're going to beat yourself up over this, do it on your own time, please. Right now, we are at a very fancy restaurant, for the _express purpose_ of forgetting unpleasant things. Now, I'm not going to tell you what you should feel, or how seriously you should take your religion. . . or whatever this festival is about. . . all I'm saying is - there are worse things than forgetting something as a result of extreme pressure. It happens. Can we all enjoy our meal now?"

Spock seemed to wilt a little, but he did at last turn his attention to the food.

"That's the spirit," said Mack, cheerfully, "Life is short, eat dessert first."

Chris laughed, long and loudly, and even Spock seemed to find the sentiment slightly encouraging, if not amusing.

However, true to form, he said nothing.

Chris wasn't surprised when he continued to say nothing, so he picked up his own conversation with Mack. They discussed the _Enterprise's_ new projected long range sensor array configuration during the _pok-tar_ and black-shelled _Rhombolian_ mollusks in their unique sweet and sour butter sauce (of which Spock did not partake, but Chris understood that this place, though run by Vulcans, was catering mainly to a Human clientele - not surprising that there were some non-vegetarian things on the menu); and Mack talked incessantly about the less-volatile portions of the transcripts from the latest Federation talks with the Klingons during the _pret-armeel'i_ and _fhour'yon_ salad, winding down to a slightly pompous discussion of recent Cardassian "peace envoys" during the refreshingly astringent, and surprisingly _red_ plomeek soup.

"I for one don't care how much they don't attack us," said Mack, "There isn't any love lost between our races and that's how it's gonna stay for a few lifetimes, or I'm a jackrabbit."

" _In the end, the best that can be said of anyone is that "he understood his fellow men". To love is easy, and therefore common. But understanding is rare, and precious indeed_." Chris smiled. "Yves St. Allard, third President of the Federation. Good man, by all accounts."

"Mmph. He's the fellow who made first contact with Cardassia, isn't he?"

"Yep."

"Well all the understanding in the universe isn't going to make our border with them any less difficult to maintain."

"Might stop a war though."

"With the Klingons to the left of us and the Romulans to the right of us?" he scoffed, picking up the last color course - a shot glass filled with a light blue liquid. "It might take a generation or two - or three - but there's trouble coming from all sides. If there isn't, I'll eat my buttons. The Federation isn't a bottomless pit of resources, Chris, and the thing is, our neighbors _know it_. We're still earning our own legitimacy, and Starfleet is the only thing we've got that even resembles a standing army. Mark my words, when worst comes to it - and it will, Chris - us spacers are going to be the only ones around who can take a stand. We're going to have to leave the understanding to the diplomats, because it's just not going to be in our job description anymore."

"I'm afraid I'm a little more optimistic, Mack."

"I also, Admiral," said Spock, finally speaking up, as he seemed to be finished with his dinner. "I speak from experience when I say that diplomacy is not the only efficacious method for understanding between races," he picked up his own small glass, "Also, you may not like the _sheekuya n'a'na_ Admiral - it has quite a strong flavor." Spock downed the drink in one gulp.

Mack shrugged and kicked back the shot like a pro. He grimaced a little, but not enough to prevent Chris from following suit.

And a flaming sugar mill exploded in his mouth.

"Gah!" he spluttered, nearly choking, "Ahhk. . . how. . . how do you drink that stuff? It tastes like someone poured White Lightning through a sock. . . and into a bottle of crushed orange Tic-Tacs."

Spock poured him more tea, both of them ignoring Mack's not entirely concealed laughter, "The alcohol is a preservative. The _ku'ya_ fruit is highly prized for its medicinal qualities, but they can only be harvested for a few days before they either rot or sprout - what are Tic-Tacs?"

"Classic Terran candy. . ." Chris had to pause as he coughed again, "That stuff is _terrible_."

"Fascinating. In my experience you have consistently chosen both sweet and intoxicating beverages. I had assumed you would also find this one palatable."

"Well, there's sweet, and then there's _sweet_. That right there is _too_ sweet." He coughed again, less violently, "And there's a flippin' _reason_ why White Lightning is still illegal - the stuff's a _health hazard_." He took a large mouthful of tea and swished it around before wincing and gulping it back. "Blehh. Sorry Spock, everyone's got a limit, and that's mine."

"It is of little consequence."

T'Lath re-entered their room at this moment, discreetly holding a wide-screened combo PADD and chit-scanner which she deftly placed in the center of the table as she gathered their last round of dishes. Chris swiftly picked it up, and looked at the bill as nonchalantly as though he were reading the menu.

"Mm, very nice, thanks," he said, tapping the screen to double the surprisingly low gratuity before swiping his credit chit, "You will send our compliments to the chef and his fascinating wife?"

T'Lath gave another flat smile, taking the scanner back, "I will, good sirs. It is customary to offer a dessert. . ." she paused, expectant.

"No, thank you," replied Spock, "We have other plans for that event."

Chris squirmed a little on his cushion, worried for a second that Spock had misunderstood what he had meant when he had spoken of "dessert" earlier. . .

When the waitress had nodded and left, Spock said, "There is an ice cream parlor not very distant from here that is a particular preference of mine - if you would care to join me. . .?"

"Of course, Spock, tonight is all for you," Chris said, relieved. "But, I must admit I'm surprised you even _like_ ice cream - it seems like, well, not to be blunt or anything, but it seems a little too _Human_ for you."

Spock stood, straightening the jacket he had given him, "Quite beyond the fact that I _am_ half Human," he said, ever so slightly miffed, "it is also considered the highest luxury on Vulcan to consume anything cold or frozen, and as tonight ought to have informed you, Vulcan cuisine uses a high percentage of dairy products, and is commonly given to intense flavors. Ice cream is hardly beyond the scope of my inherent taste preferences."

"Huh," Chris grunted, reaching out a hand to help Mack stand up. The older man groaned a little, holding his lower back.

" _Never eat more then you can lift_ ", Mack said, grinning, "Miss Piggy."

Chris guffawed.

Spock didn't ask.

* * *

The Captain collected a happy and boisterous Mina from the hostess desk, then gestured for Spock to lead the way to the ice cream parlor.

He turned in the right direction by autopilot - there was only one thing repeating over and over in his mind, and it had nothing to do with dessert. T'Pring would not have forgotten it was _gad'r'tas_ , of that he was certain. Perhaps it had not been the _first_ thing on her mind right after waking up from the Fever, but she would _not_ have forgotten. She simply _could not_ have forgotten.

_She is probably halfway up The Mountain by now._

He thought of the last time he had been to Seleya - three years ago. It had not been the Festival of Surak then, and he had been alone, armed only with the common-day Offering of _bar-got_ and salt. He had spent minimal time at the Places of the Stones however, wishing to reach the Cave of the Ancients as soon as he could. Once there, he had communed with the Ark of Skon, his grandfather, trying to learn as much as possible about their family from him. And it had seemed that Skon, son of Solkar, son of Solor, had been made specifically to surprise him, Spock, personally. The Ark of Skon was focused on its son - more than was common, in fact. Sarek's father reached towards Sarek with almost unbelievable intensity. It was highly likely Skon's Ark would be one of the few that would accept more than one _katra_ within itself, for he had felt Skon's reaching not only towards Sarek, but also towards T'Pau, his aunt T'Kala, his brother Sybok, and. . . himself. That had been the greatest surprise - that his grandfather would willingly, even eagerly, welcome eternity with him. They had never even met in person, and Skon reached towards him.

It had made him wonder if he had misjudged Sarek.

On his descent from the Cave, he had lingered contemplatively at the Bloodstone.

He wondered; If he fought for T'Pring, as Khosarr had fought, would she begin to care for him?

_No, probably not._

Most likely she did not want him to be quite as Vulcan as that. Few did, now or ever.

He would give her one more meeting at the _kal'i'farr_ caves. Perhaps two. Then he would suggest that they both begin searching for choice-mates. Theirs was only one bond among billions. It was not worth anyone's death. But if they continued in the same way they had been, that might well be the resort she was at last driven to.

_She might make me a murderer one day; I must not let that occur._

He thought now, walking slowly along the nighttime streets of San Francisco, that it was fortunate indeed that she had at least made her displeasure with their bond clear to him. Had she failed to do so, events subsequent to that last trip to Seleya might have led him to believe he ought to stand firm for a bond with her, regardless of how unsuitable the bond seemed to him. And considering the state of things now, he did not doubt at all that she would go to extremes to be rid of him.

_She is too Vulcan, and I am not Vulcan enough - we must not marry._

He paused for a streetlight, not bothering to look both ways when it turned green again.

_She would never have forgotten today, and I, human half-breed that I am, gave it no thought at all. . ._

But the absence of any other choice but her seemed to weigh him down into the pavement.

_Leila. . ._

Perhaps she _had_ meant more to him than he had told himself and Chris. At least she had _wanted_ to love him. And. . . perhaps. . . a part of him had wanted to love her in return.

He was so deep in reverie that he nearly walked past his destination, saved only by Chris coughing at him in a way that clearly passed for "subtle" in Chris's mind. It was the only place that sold ice cream along this route - Chris must have guessed it was where he was headed.

Wordlessly, he pushed open the door.

It had been a few weeks since he had been here, but nothing about the spot had changed; A tiny, ultra-modern place called Jade, where everything was so smooth and white and featureless that it might have been dropped straight out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was fully automated, empty at this time of night, with only a very low hum of lights and machinery to indicate it was even operational. Impersonal, quiet, and functional - just the way he liked things.

It wasn't cold inside, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris shiver.

Spock ordered for them all from one of the automated stations - a dark-chocolate and walnut frozen yogurt for Komack, a raspberry and fudge gelato for Chris, and pistachio ice cream with salted caramel swirls for himself. Spock also purchased a pint of the latter in a stasis carton, to take home. He knew that consuming large amounts of the confection - especially in response to an emotional trauma - was considered a Human _female's_ reaction, but, Spock admitted to himself, sometimes there was nothing for it.

 _My main Human influence_ _**has** _ _been a female, after all. . ._

The whole process took less than three minutes, and then they were all back out on the street with their small plastic cups and spoons.

Chris looked relieved. Spock had to admit it was a sterile little place. But the product was good, and neither man was complaining.

He found his own depression lifting a little too. It was fascinating what ills a bowl of ice cream could cure.

"So, where to now?" the Admiral asked around a bite of frozen yogurt.

"Well, Spock?" Chris looked at him askance.

He swallowed before answering, "I believe you indicated a bar or a club as the next step in this Human ritual, did you not?"

Chris grinned, "Noooo, the next step is "fistfight", but you insisted rather strongly against that step, so I suppose we're skipping it."

"Indeed," he stood a little straighter. "I would therefore suggest the establishment called "The Galactic Arms" - I believe you are a member, Captain?"

"I am. Excellent choice." Chris stepped ahead, making to lead them there. "And it's just the right mix of fun and respectability for you, Spock."

"I see," he said, not entirely convinced. "That is not the impression I received two months, one week, three days and fourteen hours ago."

"What, no minutes and seconds?" asked Komack, with obvious sarcasm.

"I can provide those details if asked, Admiral."

"I'm sure you can, Spock," said Chris, "But I don't quite remember. . . remind me?"

"I am referring to the incident where you called me, saying you needed "a ride home". In actual fact you needed considerably more than that. . ."

"Oh riiight. . . yeah. _That_ was embarrassing." - Chris did not look abashed - "So, if you formed such a bad impression of one of my favorite watering holes, why did you suggest we go there, hmm?"

He wondered how much he should tell Chris about the ritual of _gad'r'tas_. He had tried to explain earlier, but he had not seemed to want to understand.

Best to keep it basic. "The interior decor is predominantly blue."

The older man's face contorted with profound confusion, "Oh. Um. . . okay. Whatever you. . . want. . . I suppose. . ."

He nodded, not answering any of the Captain's unvoiced questions.

Then he paused, remembering something else, "What about the flitter, Captain?"

"Not a problem," said Chris, grinning and patting his pocket. "My comm. has a five mile radius beckon-call for it. And The Galactic isn't _that_ far away."

Spock nodded again, and raised an eyebrow, "Miles, Captain?"

Chris smirked, half-turning around, "We're still in America, kid. You know that they still call credits "pounds" over in England, right? And they still speak Zulu in South Africa and Spanish in Puerto Rico; kids born in China still grow up with different slang than kids born in India; French accents are still different from Australian accents; our home-grown hybrids of quadrotriticale are still called "wheat", and the front portions of our starships are still called "flying saucers". There's no reason to _completely_ standardize everything."

"I am aware of that, Captain, but I was under the impression that official distances and measurements had been metricized."

"Most things have, but a few haven't," said the Admiral, bemusedly, "Conformity just isn't the All-American way, dont'cha know. We've been rebels so long, it's just kind of a habit now, I suppose."

Chris nodded in agreement.

"Captain, during my first day here, you implied that _I_ was also a rebel, if you will remember."

"Yeah, well, takes one to know one, eh?"

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by Mina suddenly tugging on her tractor-leash, sniffing along edge of the wall they were walking along, and twitching her tail into its "alert" position.

Both the Captain and the Admiral stopped in mid-laugh and looked at her. They were coming up on an alley, and she was making a beeline for the dirty passageway. Chris quickly locked the tractor-leash, not letting her get any closer to the place, and grabbed Spock's bag of ice cream while gesturing at him, pointing and nodding at the doorway.

He barely acknowledged him, straining all his senses towards the seemingly empty portal. He eased right up to the corner, letting just the point of his ear edge over into the passage. He caught some incomprehensible whispering, the rustle of at least two sets of clothing, and the chink of latinum as it was passed from hand to hand. He slowly edged an eye around the corner, expecting to see furtive citizenry in ragged disguises engaging one of the street-level drug transactions that still occurred from time to time. Instead, all he saw was the cold metal wall of a street-dumpster. They must be conducting this transaction on the other side of it. They clearly felt safe enough, and well they might - it nearly filled the passage, effectively cutting off this alleyway as a means of travel, but, fortunately it meant that they could not see him if he got closer. . .

He gestured to the Admiral and Chris, telling them wordlessly to circle the building and guard the other end of the alleyway. As soon as they were gone, he came forward quickly, but silently, and pressed his ear to the tiny gap between wall and dumpster.

The whispers were clearer now, but fragmented, and not in Standard.

". . . _this much. No, not for_. . ."

". . . _te'ver, you are sure? My lord will not_. . ."

". . . _We only wish_. . ."

". . . _I will tell him_. . ."

And a breeze took the rest of the conversation away. Spock allowed himself a moment of frustration. Even the words he could make out had been said in an atrocious patois of slave-den Orion and trader's Romulan, the sort of dialect that was considered vulgar even for criminals and thugs, but he could clearly distinguish three voices at the very least, one of which was Andorian, he was sure.

The more he thought, the less he liked this situation.

Then the breeze brought an even less encouraging scent to his nostrils. Perfumed Targennian silk, Charjin oils, Harkan fire-brandy, and dried sweat, heavy with the pheromones of a myriad of species. The unmistakable odor of a spice den.

With a silent plea for Chris and Komack to have found their places at the other end of the passage, he took a deep breath, braced himself, and with a great push and a leap, he flipped two meters in the air, and three forward, spinning so he faced his opponents when he landed solidly, on the other side of the dumpster.

The Andorian was standing with his back to the metal wall, and there were _three_ Orions ranged around him, one with his hand braced against the Andorian's throat, and the other two with closed fists and cruel expressions directed at the blue-skinned off-worlder.

They were all so shocked by his arrival that they merely stood and stared at him for a second, the Andorian's skin paling to an even icier blue. The three Orions recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent Spock from immediately dispatching two of them with a well applied Nerve Pinch each. One had been holding an open bag of whitish powder, which instantly spilt as he fell, spreading a pale stain across the dirty ground. Then the Andorian bolted, head down, and ran bullishly - directly into Spock's own newly raised fist. His knuckles connected with the Andorian's skull right beneath one of that unfortunate's antennae. He fell, as instantly unconscious as the two Orions.

The final Orion, also the largest and meanest looking of the lot, showed at least some knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, dancing back and forth, in and out of Spock's range, trying to distract him long enough to get behind him, and bolt out of the alley. Spock kept in tandem with him, not attacking, looking for an opening, any opening, to use a _to'tsu'k'hy_ again. Suddenly the green giant threw a mighty punch, Spock only barely managing to evade it by bending so far back his head nearly hit the ground. . . and there was his chance. He dropped down, slid forward, and clapped his feet on either side of the Orion's ankles. A rolling twist and the huge thug flailed, fell, and bounced face-first off the rough alley wall with a highly disconcerting crunching sound.

Like the others, he was unconscious before he hit the ground, splaying himself ungracefully across the feet and legs of the Andorian.

Spock was on his feet again in moments, suddenly aware of three more presences behind him. He spun. . . but it was Pike and Komack, with Mina straining at her leash for a closer look at the villains, sniffing and growling at the pile of them.

Chris pulled her back to heel, "We have established what kind of ninja _you_ are, Mina. Sit!"

She did. Reluctantly.

Komack grinned.

"Good job, Lieutenant. If you aren't planning on being a self-defense instructor after you graduate, well, you should." Komack's voice was excited, but he calmly took up guard duty at the entrance of the alleyway without being asked. He was brandishing a phaser. "Looks like I'm the only one who thought of one of these tonight," he smirked a little, "I'll wait here while you kids take care of the riff-raff."

Chris handed Mina off to the Admiral, and commenced shaking his head as he opened his communicator, "You really are something else, you know that, kid?"

"I am aware," Spock replied absently, focused observing the tangled bodies of his four opponents.

Orion blood was a purpleish red, and it was oozing from the wreck of the largest Orion's nose, darkening as it dried, making his face look almost like it had been eaten away by Blacktarr slime mold.

It did not at all improve the aspect of his unconscious form.

Spock crouched, gingerly lifting the unspilled portion of the bag of pale-yellow, fluffy powder, and tasted a minute bit with the tip of his little finger.

"Strange. . ."

Chris acknowledged the ETA of whomever he was speaking to, presumably the police, then closed his comm., coming over to stand next to Spock, "Says the guy with Ecto-cooler in his veins - c'mon Spock, _what's_ strange?"

"This is Nine."

"Nine?"

"Yes, the street name for _hektan_ spice - I believe it is a pun on the first syllable. "Hek" transliterated into "heck", with the slang term being a reference to the ninth circle of hell. It is a psychotropic, and the ninth circle of Dante's hell represents treachery - Q.E.D. Also, for some species it can be a euphoric, so perhaps that also contributes to the term - cloud nine, as it were."

Chris blinked. "Okay, it's dope, fine - but I thought we had already assumed that it was. Why is it strange?"

He stood up, carrying the bag a careful distance away from his clothes, "It is Orion in origin, but Orions do not commonly sell it on the streets. There is a very particular method for illegal distribution of this drug, and it usually involves a Romulan ex-patriot posing as a Vulcan doctor to acquire a shipment - _hektan_ is legal on Vulcan because it is harmless to them, except in very high doses, much like aspirin is to Humans - and then the specific use of a Caitian to sell it on the streets."

The Admiral turned around, "Why a Caitian?"

"They are among the few races immune to the ill effects of the drug, which practically ensures they will not become users themselves, and they are also known to have a strong underworld and black market presence."

Chris nodded, "Unlike Vulcans and Romulans, you mean?"

"I have no doubt a Caitian would find it far easier to acquire contacts of the kind that would buy and sell such a product than any Vulcan I have ever met, sir."

"That whole "we can't lie" thing?"

"Indeed."

"And a Romulan ex-pat probably wouldn't be caught dead doing something so publicly illegal as hawking street dope," said Komack, smirking.

"Quite."

"So, maybe the cops caught on to the Caitian thing, and this gang got wise and started using an Andorian."

"No, the Andorian was buying."

"You're sure?"

"Entirely."

Christopher sighed, probably envisioning the amount of paperwork this unfortunate encounter would produce.

"Wait - don't street sellers usually move pretty much solo? Trying to draw less attention?"

"Usually, yes. They may have a child runner or two, but a single adult pusher is most common."

"So, why three pushers, all Orions?"

"I assume they are either a very specific set of enforcers. . . or else. . ."

"Yes. . .?"

Spock shook his head, "It is simply yet another aberrant detail in this incidence, sir."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, "Okay - how aberrant _is_ this incidence?"

"Very. There have been ten-thousand one-hundred and four recorded arrests worldwide on Terra in the past five years that involve the use and/or distribution of _hektan_ spice. Thirty-one percent involved street-pushers, and ninety-nine point six two percent of those cases involved a Caitian. Conversely, only three point one percent of the whole total have been successfully traced back to their Orion suppliers, and only five point three percent have even had an Orion linked to the case in any way whatsoever."

"How come you know so much about this?" the Admiral wondered aloud, "Doesn't seem your forte. . ."

"You could say I have a vested interest, sir. My father was the primary negotiator for the legalization of the drug on Vulcan three standard years ago, and he personally finalized the trade agreement between Vulcan and Orion concerning it. It was hoped the legalization on Vulcan would reduce the illegal use of it elsewhere, but, unfortunately, the reverse has occurred. If it were not such a valuable drug in Vulcan medicine, I believe my father would lobby to have it illegalized again."

"Hmph."

"You did ask, sir. . ."

Komack turned back around to guard position.

"You're right though," said Chris, "You don't usually see an Orion on the streets. They usually ply their trades indoors. . . whatever those trades may be." He prodded one of the still unconscious Orions with the toe of his boot, "Odd. Very odd indeed."

At last, three glossy black cop cars pulled up to their location. The somberly clad men came up to them, exuding competence, and they effortlessly took charge of the situation.

Spock handed the bag of _hektan_ to the highest ranking officer - a D.I. by the color bars on his shoulder - and repeated most of his conversation with Chris to him.

The officer nodded and thanked him, then turned to speak with the Admiral.

Komack quickly monopolized the young Inspector, drawing him over to the pile of unconscious non-Humans, and speaking to him in murmured sentences.

Pike, ambling out of the alley, handed Spock's ice cream back to him, but was clearly more interested in watching Komack do his thing.

"Didn't I say it, Spock? Always bring a nice admiral along when there's trouble - best thing on earth for resolving inconveniences. Remember?"

Spock did not sigh. "It is impossible for me to have forgotten, Chris."

"Well, make sure you don't." Pike leaned indolently against the clean outer brick wall of the building, simply waiting, unworried and almost uninterested.

Spock only briefly wondered why, for he had much to think upon, at least. There was certain to be an inquiry, statements taken, arrests, interviews, possibly an identity parade, forms to fill out. . .

"Well, that's it, kids," said Komack, coming up silently next to them, "I'll go back to HQ with these gentlemen, and you two can go on to The Galactic, or whatever you want."

Spock managed to conceal his shock, but only just. "But. . . Admiral. . ."

Yet another untranslatable look passed between the Captain and the Admiral.

"Now, don't you worry, Spock," said Komack, unnecessarily, "You can come down to the station tomorrow or the next day and make a statement - there's no need to give up on a night out for the sake of some hoodlums. I've got this." Then he winked, and patted Spock on the shoulder.

"C'mon Spock," said Chris, turning away down the street, "Galactic's this way."

Deciding to abandon his confusion, Spock fell into step with Chris, once more striding along on the warm, clean, civilized portion of the streets.

It would have been a pleasant walk, save for that every few minutes, Pike was stifling a laugh.

"Is there something the matter, Christopher?" asked Spock, thinking he perhaps already knew what the answer was.

Chris finally laughed outright, "Oh, nothing, nothing - it's just funny, is all."

"What is funny, Captain?"

Chris jerked his thumb in the direction of the receding scene of Orions being packed away in the back of the cops' hovercar, "Just. . . well, we did manage to get you into a fistfight after all, didn't we?"

* * *

Spock decided he liked The Galactic. It was a surprisingly easy place to get used to, if you came to it with few expectations and an open mind.

The whole building was an oval, and inside, the very center was a large, circular, and very modern dance floor. Radiating out from this, in arcs that cleverly suggested the galactic spiral arms which gave the place its name, were two quite incredibly well-stocked bars, two rows of booth seating, and four rows of tables and chairs. Everything was either covered with midnight blue plasti-leather, or made of a clear plastic resin. There were faux-crystal "stars" everywhere, even on the drinking glasses. The ceiling of the place had a constantly coruscating lightshow of tiny colored lights, and each booth and table had a pendant lamp that looked like a blue dwarf star.

Despite being a popular destination for rambunctious youth - and equally frequented by the young at heart, like Chris - the place had a respectable air about it that Spock appreciated.

It was nowhere near the Cave Of The Ancients, and the blue glowing things here had nothing on the Serene Stone, or the Katric Ark, but, for the Scion of Surak, on _gad'r'tas_ , it would have to do.

The dance floor was mostly empty tonight, but both bars were well tenanted. Pike had chosen a somewhat secluded booth for them, facing one of the bars, but well enough away from the dance floor to be able to talk without Sal Vitteo's latest dance-club beat making it difficult to hear each other.

They both ordered a drink by the numbers shown in a holo above the table, and sat back to wait in silence.

Over the loudspeakers, Sal wailed something about love, and trust in a time of war. . .

Spock's mind flashed back to that afternoon, and the last fever dream T'Pring had given to him. She had been so close to him he could smell her hair, as fresh as the newly sprouted spines of an _ic'tan_ tree, and he could sense her feelings, as bright and as curious and as delighted as a Human child's first look at the stars. In that moment he had loved her, yearned for her, found all he needed and wanted in the simple touch of his fingers to her skin. . . and then the dream had broken, and it was nothing but a dream. He had wanted to retch.

The same choking revulsion washed over him now. Could he _never_ remove her presence from him? He wanted to want, wanted to love and enjoy the presence of his bondmate, and sometimes, deep in her dreams, he _did_. But would it never last beyond the false promises of the Fires? Those feelings, those wants and desires, were they nothing more than a dream she forced upon him?

Pike's voice reached him through his wondering.

"Hey, Earth to Spock - where are you?"

He blinked. "I am here Captain."

"Nope, you're somewhere far away - ah."

Chris's drink arrived, and he took a grateful sip of what Spock assumed by the smell was a strong single-malt whiskey.

He inhaled deeply, considering a moment before asking, "Captain, do you think it is possible to be bewitched by a woman you do not want?"

Chris blew out his cheeks, "Well, I dunno. You mean Leila?

Spock repressed a sigh. "No, Captain, I do not."

"Well," said Chris, idly scratching his cheek, "taken literally, being "bewitched" is not usually a _voluntary_ thing, if you know what I mean, so. . . yeah. I guess it's possible to be bewitched by someone you hate, sure."

"Hate is, perhaps, too strong a word."

A strange wave of adrenaline washed through him. That was a lie.

He looked at Chris, and Chris seemed to know it was too.

"Uh-huh. So, why even ask me?"

"It has been said - 'Infatuation may not be voluntary, but love is always a choice.'"

"Huh. Who said that?

Spock was sorry he had spoken. Explaining the originator of the saying would be even more difficult to explain than why he had quoted him. But there was nothing for it. "Kallin Ik'kar."

"Sounds Vulcan."

"He was. He has been dead for over eighteen hundred years."

Chris smirked. "Known for his charming ways, was he?"

Recalling the actual meaning of Kallin's title of "The Strong", Spock reluctantly agreed. "That is one way to put it. . ."

"And was _he_ ever "bewitched" by someone he did not like?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"So, why bring it up?"

"It. . . does not matter. Please disregard my inquiry."

"Really? You sure?" The captain looked at him keenly, "So you're telling me this has _nothing_ to do with your little "I forgot a holiday and now I must punish myself" episode back at dinner?"

"Well. . ."

"Yes, Spock?"

"I. . ."

"Yes. . .?"

"T'Pring would not have forgotten. That is all."

Pike's brow furrowed, "T'Pring? Who is she?"

Spock allowed himself a sigh of regret. "My wife."

Chris's drink stopped on the way to his lips. "Your. . . wait. Your WHAT?"

"Perhaps that is also too strong a term. She is my _ko-kugalsu_ \- my wife-to-be. You would say "fiancee", but it is more than that to us. We are bonded."

"Wow, Spock, I. . . I. . . really, I can't. . . I just. . . wow. Really. Wow." Chris shook his head, his expression almost completely blank.

"I take it you are. . . surprised. . . by this revelation?"

Chris gave a strange, strained laugh, "No Spock, "surprised" isn't the word _at all_. Flipping flabbergasted, maybe, or damn stunned, perhaps, but _surprised_? No. No. . . not that. . . " He trailed off, looking at Spock, but with an odd stare that seemed to look past him as well.

_Disconcerting._

"Fascinating. I had thought you were more fully conversant in Vulcan traditional culture. No matter. Do you wish me to explain that we have mutually agreed that our bond is dysfunctional and superfluous, and have both consented to the other searching for a choice-mate?"

"Oh." Chris sat up straighter, his eyes refocusing. "OH? Oh really? That is a MASSIVE relief. . ."

"Indeed. I have not yet found an individual who is compatible with my standards and tastes, but I am perfectly free to continue the search for one such."

"So all those girls I've sent your way the past two years. . ."

"Were welcome in the sense that they allowed me to begin to evaluate the parameters of my personal preferences regarding Human women."

"Thanks? I think? Or should I say you're welcome?" Chris mimed wiping sweat away from his forehead.

"You may say whatever you wish to say regarding them. I have little comment save that I value your opinion and would prefer to continue my search with you as an adviser - but less so with you as a. . . procurer. . ."

"Good." Chris shuddered, from realization or relief Spock could not tell. "I might be your Captain, and I'm willing be a father-figure stand-in, but I do draw the line at _pimp_."

Spock remembered Chris's "we'll buy you some ' _dessert_ '" statement from earlier, "I would never have allowed that to happen, Christopher."

Chris looked unconvinced, but just then Spock's drink came. The Captain looked at his choice of beverage with some distaste.

"Hot apple cider? C'mon Spock, have something a _little_ stronger."

Spock adopted a reassuring tone. "Methyl-hydroxychalcone acts on the Vulcan system much like caffeine does on the Human system."

"You mean cinnamon?"

"Yes." He took a drink. The cider was not replicated and the cinnamon was fresh.

 _Acceptable_.

Chris looked incredulous, " _Cinnamon_ gives you a buzz?"

"I do not believe I said that. . ."

"No, but you _need to relax_ , my friend - not get all hyped-up. I'm just trying to do what's best. . ."

Spock sighed a little, "If it is your intention to attempt to trick me into consuming chocolate, may I remind you that I have two advanced degrees in organic-xenochemistry?"

Chris's eyes twinkled, "Well, this _is_ The Galactic - I was thinking of some yerba _maté_ \- they grow a dynamite hybrid type on the Rigel colony now, and it's this place's specialty - you ever had a good _maté_ , Spock?"

Spock deliberatly ignored the look in his friend's eyes, "I am certain you are aware that _maté_ also contains the intoxicant theobromine, as does most Terran sourced tea, Pataxte, Angustifolium, Guarana, Cola _acuminata_ , Coffea _arabica_. . ."

"Yes, yes, okay," said Chris, rolling his eyes, "Never get into a substance constituency argument with an organic chemist - but _what_ would be so wrong with loosening up a teensy bit?"

"If you will cease pestering me, I will order an iced green tea for myself, and a whole bottle of single malt whiskey for you."

"So you can drink me under the table? No, thank you. Been there, tried that, not doing it again."

Spock raised an eyebrow, "Your error was in assuming that tequila would intoxicate me, which it does not. I assure you, my tolerance to Vulcan intoxicants is, in actuality, rather low. A glass of Terran iced tea would effect me as strongly as a comperable amount of whiskey would affect you, even though the constituent amount of theobromine in the tea is far less than the alcohol in the whiskey."

"Really? You're that much of a lightweight?"

"I have had little practical experience, given that I grew up on Vulcan. Nearly all intoxicating substances are highly controlled there."

"I know. Except for beer," the older man smacked his lips at the memory, "Best beer in the quadrant."

"On Vulcan, alcohol is not an intoxi - "

"You know," said Chris, interrupting as usual, "It really is too bad more of your land isn't arable - you could make enough to buy half the galaxy on the strength of just that beer. It's a tragedy that stuff is so unknown. And the wine. At least the Federation Wine and Spirits Society has finally caught on to _hirat_ wine - you kept that a secret long enough."

Spock took another sip of the cider and resolutely held back his frustration. "It is much less a case of our keeping these things a secret, and far more the fact that for a long while it was not understood that adults would care for them."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Both are generally considered more suitable for children."

Pike spluttered into his drink, "Wait. . . _what_?"

Spock nodded slowly, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the mug, "On Vulcan, beer is called "cultured grain" and is usually _eaten_ , much like porridge, for the increased levels of b-vitamins. It is the most common breakfast given to young children. The filtered form you so enjoyed is customarily the only nourishment that is sent with children on their _khas-wan_ journey."

Chris shook his head. "And the wine?"

"Fermented _hirat_ juice is considered an ideal drink for children, seeing it contains high levels of antioxidants and phytonutrients, and given that the alcohol neutralizes most bacterial infestations found naturally in wild-sourced water - "

"Sure sure," Chris cut him off with a bored look and a wave of his hand, "What was that rum-like stuff that put me under the first time I tried it? The 180 proof stuff infused with honey - oh you know!"

" _Sloh'ghaf-tor_."

"Yeah. That." He sighed a little, "They don't sell it here, do they?"

"No, it is a controlled substance on Terra - the glucose content expedites the absorption of the alcohol into Terran bloodstreams - even a milliliter can cause a major deleterious effect on the Terran metabolism. . ."

"True - but have you ever thought how much _fun_ that deleterious effect is?"

"I have. Your devotion to intoxicants has always been a source of morbid interest to me."

"All I know is that there aren't many cadets who can out-drink me - they respect that about me, you know." Chris paused a minute and gave him an oddly appraising look, "You might consider working up your resistance to a few intoxicants yourself, Spock. You never know when you might accidentally ingest more than you can handle - then where would you be?"

"A surprisingly logical point, Captain." Somewhat absently, Spock wondered if the greater part of his surprise was an effect of the cinnamon.

"Well, that's me - I have points in surprisingly logical places." He leered openly at a waitress passing their table.

Spock gave a slight grimace, "I am now considering ordering a _k'vass_ simply so I might be enabled to forget the crudely sexual overtones of that statement."

Chris made a face, "But _k'vass_ tastes like mild rum-punch. . ."

"It also happens to contain both theobromine _and_ methyl-hydroxychalcone."

"Wait - a downer AND an upper? In one drink?"

Spock held back a sigh. "No. Theobromine is not a "downer" to Vulcans; rather, it chemically relaxes our mental controls, and such a thing can cause the entire spectrum of reactive emotional states. Also, cinnamon is not an "upper" so much as it is an intensifier." He finished the small mug he had ordered, wondering now if it had been a good idea. . .

Chris whistled lightly, then grinned, "Sounds dangerous. . ."

"It is the only commonly served intoxicant on Vulcan."

Chris shrugged, "Hey, whatever it takes to get you to loosen up, son," he smirked, not realizing how uncomfortable Spock was already, "Anyway - I've got some more _double entendres_ in my back pocket. You want another?"

Spock raised his eyebrow again, "No. I have - I believe the phrase is "heard this one before" - and I do not desire you to "give me one" in _any_ interpretation of the term."

Chris chuckled, "Your problem is that you're just too much fun to tease."

"And I believe your problem is that you enjoy it too much."

This time Chris laughed heartily, "Trust me, Spock, all it's going to take for you to find a new girl is for you to look for someone who enjoys teasing you _too much_."

He tilted his head slightly, "Perhaps part of the problem is that I do not want a 'girl'."

Chris started, staring at him confusedly. "Really? You've never indicated _that_ before. . ."

"You misunderstand. I do not want a childish or a shallow relationship, as is indicated by the appellation "girl" in Terran Standard." Chris's eyes relaxed, indicating he understood. "My desire is for a far more mature and permanent experience."

"Oh." Pike finished his drink in a long, slow sip, then set the glass down, and ran a fingertip contemplatively along the rim, asking his next question quite cautiously. "Is that why you broke up with Leila?"

Spock inhaled, ready to refuse to answer, but then decided that Chris, of all people, might actually be a help in this matter, if he could get him to understand it slightly better.

"In an overly simplified sense. . . yes," he said, just as cautiously. "My. . . friendship. . . with Leila proved something to me." He paused, uncertain for a second, but then forged on, "It proved that I am too much of an alien still." Spock raised a hand to forestall Chris's inevitable reassurance on this point, "If I can let a simple friendship with a Human woman - with whom, I remind you, I did not have constant face-to-face or close quarters contact - if I can let such a relationship evolve so easily - and more, _unknowingly_ \- into an unrequited romantic relationship, then what hope do I have of peaceably surviving a five-year mission in an enclosed environment with a predominantly Human crew?"

He saw understanding dawning at last in his friend's eyes.

"And do not think that I am unaware that romantic relationships are a virtual certainty. Five years is a long time, and a starship is a small place."

"True, but. . ."

"I am not Human, Chris - not all, perhaps not even half - but I am highly aware of Humans' _value_. I cannot continue to be the cause of pain - to _anyone_ , but especially to my colleagues - if I can at all prevent it." Chris raised his eyebrows at that, but still nodded like he agreed with the sentiment. "I do not yet deserve a place on a Starfleet vessel, Captain - certainly not First Officer. And I will not deserve it until I can, at the very least, _recognize_ a far broader spectrum of Human emotional cues - and from women especially."

Chris nodded, understanding, "Hence your request to move to the Academy dorms?"

"Yes. And my presence here tonight."

Chris sighed deeply, "Well, I knew you were a heartthrob, but I never imagined things had progressed to this state."

"A "heartthrob", Captain?" Both his eyebrows raised of their own accord, "I was unaware that my presence induced cardiac arrhythmia. . ."

Pike smiled, "It means girls like you."

"I was aware of _that_. . ."

"No, I mean, really, _really_ like you. _Including_ most of the ones in relationships with other men - maybe even the ones in relationships with other women. And a good cross-section of men do too - even some straight ones. You seem tailor-made for crushes. . . I don't think it'd be an exaggeration to say that about 75% of the cadets currently enrolled at the Academy are more than a little starry-eyed over you. And don't get me started on the teachers. . ." Chris stopped. Spock assumed it was because a distressed look had been growing on his face that he was somewhat desperately trying to control. . . but it seemed he simply had no power to prevent Chris's words from completely unnerving him.

Chris continued, more gently, "It has nothing to do with your intentions, Spock, it just means you're one attractive sentient being. You can hardly blame Leila, and you can't blame yourself." Pike smirked a little, "Though you _might_ be able to blame the cut of the cadet's uniform trousers. . ." He laughed, presumably at the sudden blush on Spock's cheeks and ears.

"My. . . trousers?"

"Yep, never underestimate the power of a monumental ass."

"That does not seem like a compliment. . ."

Chris laughed, "Oh, lighten up a little, Spock - It's just genetics and fate, really."

"But. . ." There was marked distress in his voice too. He could not continue his sentence.

"Look, don't take it so hard, son, it's actually natural - here on Earth, anyway - for there to be a few totally drop-dead gorgeous people walking around, for folks to look at, dream over, crush on, and then forget as we mature and meet people who we're _actually_ attracted to, for much more stable reasons. You just happened to end up on the other side of the equation than most folks do - personally I'm impressed you want to do something about it before you accept a posting. Very professional and thoughtful of you."

"It is. . . a logical choice. . ." His own voice seemed to come from far away.

"Of course it is. And trust me - the _most_ effective thing you can do right now is to get another girlfriend."

He snapped back to earth, "Leila was _not_ my girlfriend."

"Maybe not to you she wasn't, but to everyone else - including her, by the way - she _was_."

"Regardless, I do not wish to repeat the experience."

"Even if you do, you won't."

Spock tilted his head, "I am confused."

Pike sighed, "Every woman is different, Spock. Trust me, I may not be an expert at romance, but even I know _that_. No two relationships are ever going to be the same, and by extension, no two experiences will ever be exactly similar. Whatever happened with Leila, it won't happen again just like that. Apart from everything else, you've _learned_ from the experience, right?"

"Indeed, Captain, I have."

"Well, there you go then." Chris leaned back into the faux-leather seat. "The only thing that can stop you from having another. . . what should I call it?. . . "romantically complex non-familial type relationship", is _you_."

Spock considered for a moment. "Indeed."

At that moment, a particularly striking blond walked up to the section of the bar nearest them, and sat down, apparently alone. This portion of the bar was almost empty - no one noticed her except Chris. _He_ noticed her, of course - it would have been slightly incredible if he hadn't - and looked at Spock and inclined his head in her direction.

"Well, that's fortuitous. What are you waiting for? Go on, kid."

"Captain, I do not think - "

"You can't not have a conversation with someone because you're afraid to hurt them, Spock." Pike tapped a refill order into the PADD embedded into the tabletop. "A person's emotional state doesn't belong to you - you can effect it, of course, but how they act or react to something is entirely their own responsibility. Just don't be a jerk - that's _your_ responsibility. Now go talk to her - nicely. And I know you know how to, so don't play dumb."

Spock's heart sank. He wondered if it was a Vulcan reaction or a Human one. He closed his eyes for a moment, and decided there was nothing for it.

"Yes sir."

"And I don't want to see you again until sometime _late_ tomorrow afternoon."

"Captain. . ."

"Go on, Spock. Scram."

Spock almost shook his head, but did leave the table, slowly approaching the bar. Eventually he took a seat close to the tall, lonely looking blonde - but not too close.

He ordered a White Russian with nutmeg, and sipped it while the woman two seats over ordered a whole set of flavored Cardassian Tequila shots. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she sprinkled sugar on the back of her hand, downed a poisonously green shot, licked the sugar, and bit into a wedge of kiwi fruit. He continued to watch as she did the same with a glowing pink shot, Kosher salt, and half of a strawberry. When she reached for the unnaturally bright purple shot with pink salt and passion fruit, he surprised himself by actually turning in her direction and asking - "If it is allowed, may I know your name?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, and took the shot before answering.

"Christine."

Her voice was very abrupt, her tone the exact opposite of entirely cheerful.

"My name is Spock."

She reached for the fluorescent yellow shot with brown sugar and slice of quince. "Must be jolly for you."

He said nothing.

She drank the orange shot with black salt and a chunk of persimmon before she turned to him again.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost seeming to mean it, "I'm just a terribly belligerent drunk, I suppose."

"Interesting. Belligerent is not the word I would have used." He finished his drink and ordered another.

"Really?" she took the last shot - an acidic-looking aquamarine thing with gray salt and a slice of Cardassian pear. "What word would you have used then?"

He considered a moment, "Sorrowful, I think."

She clicked her tongue and nodded, the gesture neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "All right, smarty," she said, and pointed to his drink, "How about a Cardassian Sunrise instead of that old junk?"

He shook his head, "I find "this old junk" to be more palatable, but thank you."

She snorted, and ordered one for herself. Then she paused a long time. He let her be silent.

While he waited, he contemplated the merits and demerits of long, elegant nails painted ironblood-red.

"You must think me terribly Human," she said, finally, her voice low for the first time, and almost soft.

"No," he said, decidedly, "But I do think something terribly Human has happened to you." There was clearly no other reason for a woman like this to be drinking, alone, at this time of night, at this time of the week.

She snorted again before taking a long pull of her fiery-orange and red drink. "Got it in one, buddy." She slapped the now half-empty glass down.

"My name is - "

"I heard your name," she snapped, "I just don't like names tonight, 'k?"

"I understand."

But he didn't.

He understood the concept of "drinking buddies", of course, but he had always assumed such were nearly always longtime friends, or at least acquaintances fairly well-known to each other. If "buddies" could also be strangers, as it now appeared they could, then what sort of emotional footing could be expected in such an encounter?

He also understood the concept of a "one night stand" - this was not the first time Pike had tried to "set him up" by ordering him to talk to a woman - but physical intimacy was not something he often desired, if, in fact, he ever truly had. He was not sure. But he _was_ sure that he had made no "come ons" as he understood the term, and she seemed to be aware and accepting of that fact.

_Exactly as Leila was at first. . ._

Now, this woman named Christine was undeniably physically attractive, but it was just as obvious that her mental state was, at present, quite turbulent.

So, why would she name him her friend, and then immediately afterwards declare that she didn't want to hear his name?

He wondered if this was what Humans called "mixed signals".

"Wanna share a pitcher of the new Slusho Mixers?" she said, her Cardassian Sunrise gone, but her speech only slightly blurry. "I hear they're good - for the price, hey?"

He agreed, somewhat reluctantly. Most beverages under the Ferengi brand Slusho were indeed affordable, but to his palate they were bitter, chemically laced drinks, more artificial than artistic. Very probably Human taste receptors reacted favorably to the brew, while Vulcan taste receptors did not. It was a logical assumption - Ferengi products were rarely tailored to Vulcan sensibilities. He quickly ordered an iced lemonade for a "chaser".

She ordered the pitcher and two glasses. She also moved over into the seat directly next to him.

"So, what do you do?" She leaned closer to him, put her chin on her hand, and looked expectant.

Her eyes were more blue than Leila's had been, but her hair was the same soft, pale gold, and her scent was similar - floral and feminine, but with an undertone of spice, of strength. . .

"I am an employee of Starfleet."

She blinked and sat up. "Right. I shouldn't have asked, sorry."

"It is of no consequence."

He had never had someone "blow hot and cold" like this before. Normally, in his experience, women either made an all-out play for his favor, or studiously ignored him. Or they did both, come to think of it, and in that order. He was not sure if Christine intrigued him, impressed him, or so appalled him that he wanted to run far, far away, and as soon as possible.

The Mixers came, and she poured for both of them. He took a very small, unpleasant sip, followed quickly by the lemonade, while she drank the shaved-ice concoction so quickly as to give herself a headache.

"Oooooh," she moaned, rubbing her forehead and temples, "I _always_ do that." Then she giggled. "What an _idiot_!" She looked over at him, her teeth flashing as she grinned.

Spock caught his breath.

She could not know - of _course_ she was unaware - but what she was doing, this touching of her meld-points and these displays of emotion - to a Vulcan it was the equivalent of a "strip tease". He had seen other Human and non-Vulcan women do these things before, of course, and it had not effected him to any important degree, given that they were of a different biological culture - naturally touching their own faces and expressing their momentary emotional state would not carry the same visceral impact that it did to his race and culture.

But still. . .

Given how closely Christine resembled Leila, both in looks and in scent, and given how overwhelming her emotional turmoil clearly was at this time, it was only wisdom for him to remove himself from this situation.

He half stood, saying, "It has been most pleasant, but - "

She interrupted, "You don't like the Mixers! I'm sorry, I should have asked," she appropriated the serving she had given him, "How about something else - a pineapple daiquiri, maybe?" When he did not refuse, she tapped the order into the bar, then hefted her glass of Mixers, "And I promise to slow down - fair?"

He sat down again, slowly, "I am not well-disposed towards tropical fruits generally, but I find pineapple to be. . . occasionally acceptable."

She grinned, and sipped her Mixers, not saying anything more for quite a long while.

He was relieved, and turned his mind to other things.

Three-quarters of the way through planning his study schedule for his Advanced Statistics final next month, she spoke up again.

"You ever get dumped by someone?" He looked up, noticing she was more than nine-tenths of the way through the whole pitcher of Mixers. She blushed suddenly, "Sorry, I mean I know we all _have_ , of course, but have you ever been really, _literally_ just dumped? *Boom*, like that, no discussion, no explanation, just. . . gone?"

He would have found her question too personal, save for the fact that the unsteady look in her eyes indicated a high probability that she would not remember this encounter by tomorrow.

"Indeed." On an impulse of his own, he raised his almost untouched daiquiri.

"Well then," she raised the last of the Mixers and crashed her glass into his, "Here's to the dumped!" Then she slugged back the last of what was in her glass, "Now then. . ." She trailed off, giving him a silly, happy, fuzzy sort of a look that made him several different types of uncomfortable. "Now. . . now then. . ." she tried again, "Do, you want, to, to take me home?"

He rose. "That would be wise," he said, taking her arm to help her up.

"Wow," she said, exaggeratedly amazed, "You really. . . really tall." She leaned up against him, tottering on her high heels, "Mmm, and warm too, wow. . ."

"Please tell me your home address."

She giggled, slightly hysterically. "Hmm - no."

"Christine, I must take you home."

She clung to his arm. "Ahh, yes."

"I must therefore know your home address."

She giggled again, "No."

He did not understand this game.

"Christine. . ."

But she was not listening to him, instead nudging her face behind the lapel of his leather jacket.

With a silent plea for forgiveness, he touched two fingers to the pulse point at her wrist. Her thoughts rushed past him, a flowery tangled blur, but it only took a delicate scan of her surface consciousness to find what he needed. Then he led her slowly outside, still giggling and nuzzling his jacket.

As chance would have it, the only available public transport at that moment was not the usual green-striped automated flitter, but a classic throwback checkered-yellow taxi, with four wheels and a driver. Spock shrugged. It would suffice.

But it seemed Christine would not let go of him, so he was obliged to maneuver himself into the car, as well as her. He gave the driver her address, not looking up from her silly, and now rather messy, expression.

"Christine," he said, gently, trying to understand, "It is not my intention to - "

" _Damn_ Korby!" she hissed, then grabbed his neck and ears, aggressively attaching her mouth to his.

He managed not to shove her off him, or do anything else rash that might damage her, but slowly, by reacting at little as possible, he gradually got her to disengage.

As soon as he was free, she collapsed against his side and commenced to cry, quite stormily.

This, while not exactly welcome, was at least somewhat expected, and he knew the motions to make. An arm around her shoulders, and a tissue appeared to suffice.

Her tears were nearly spent when they pulled up at her apartment complex. Telling the driver to wait for him, he led her safely upstairs, managed to get her to say her password and scan her palmprint to get into her apartment, and had removed her shoes before he braced himself to ask the final question.

"Where is your bedroom, Christine?"

She laughed through the remains of her tears, reaching out and touching the side of his neck, "Pretty Vulcan. . ." she murmured, abstractedly.

He had not wanted to search her home, but he swiftly decided there was nothing else to do. Three rooms later, he found her bedroom, placed her under the covers, and was about to leave when she gripped his hand.

"Don' go," she mumbled sleepily.

"I must," he said, gently trying to remove his hand.

"Stay. . ."

"I cannot. . ."

Through the touch of her fingers he could feel her drifting off to sleep, her mind finally relaxing, releasing its turmoil for a time. He felt her become soft, gauzy, dissipating. . .

And then he felt something else. Her mind was reaching out to his.

_Not again._

He could _feel_ a bond beginning to form. Her mind was trying to connect to his somehow - just as Leila's had done. For the first time he _saw_ the mental signs of a Human-initiated bond, and for the first time he was able to prevent it. The tendrils that came from her mind were a completely different color than anything he had seen before. They were the same color as the background "sound" of the universe that every Vulcan had for a backdrop to his mind. No wonder he had not known how Leila had initiated a bond with him. The mind-tendrils were thin, and unaware, rooted in her subconscious, but they were still strong, and very real. He blocked them before they ever touched his _katra_. They turned away, defeated by a simple mental wall. Christine would never have to face the burden of a bond with him.

He did not know whether to shout for joy, or weep in utter despair.

No matter. She was asleep now, his hand was free, and his duty was accomplished.

Then, a crazy impulse overtook him, and he leaned forward, gently touching her mouth with his.

It was the kiss he had never given Leila, and could never give to T'Pring.

Then his heart smote him once again. She was drunk. _And_ asleep. He had not the least right to still be here.

He left, and asked the taxi driver to take him back to the Galactic.

* * *

Chris was _not_ pleased to see him.

"Now, what did I say about me seeing you again before tomorrow afternoon?"

Spock held his face impassive. "She was intoxicated, Captain. Highly. I saw her home." He sat down and ordered a glass of water.

"Ah." Chris nodded, only slightly disappointed, "Good call."

"Indeed." This was not the first time he had seen that precise disappointment on Chris's face either - one day he would muster the courage to ask the older man just exactly what benefit Humans derived from their interest other people's intimate lives. "May I now impose upon you for transportation to Hill House? I need to prepare for my relocation to the Academy dorms in the morning."

"You want to move _tomorrow_ , Spock?"

"If it means I will not have to experience another evening such as this, then yes."

Pike smirked, "You didn't enjoy your night out, then?"

He took a sip of water, "Let us say that I am relieved that this Human ritual of yours is completed, Captain."

Chris chuckled, "Well, I think I can expedite the room-requisition order, anyway. The Dean of Housing is a friend of mine."

"I do not believe we have been introduced."

"You've seen him, if nothing else," Chris shrugged a little, "His name's Heit Paalach. He's a Zakdorn, very efficient. Nice guy too. I'll introduce you at the next campus-wide chess tournament. You'd like him, I think."

"I recognize the name. He has won the campus tournament five times."

"Yes, he has. But he hasn't even bothered to enter the past two, three times. Too busy, I guess. I'll convince him to come back - he's good enough to beat even you, I'm pretty sure."

"A new challenge would be most welcome."

Chris laughed. "Yeah, I'm not much of an opponent, am I?"

"On the contrary, Captain, you often play in an intuitive manner that is quite surprising."

"You mean reckless?" Pike smirked.

"It can be that, at times. . ."

"Well, anyway, I'll make sure he sets you up with a good place."

Spock raised his glass in salute, "My thanks, Christopher."

Chris's eyes gleamed, "Well, you know what they say - ' _Friends help you move, but real friends help you move bodies._ '"

Spock blinked. "I sincerely hope that was an example of Terran humor, Captain. . ."

"It was," Pike sighed, "You know, you might consider trying to be less of a kill-joy sometimes."

"I will investigate the term."

Chris looked unbelieving. "You don't know what a "kill-joy" is?"

"Other than the literal meaning, no."

"Well, fortunately or not, this one is pretty straightforward. . . "

"That is encouraging."

Christopher shook his head, then reluctantly stood, handing Spock's pint of ice cream to him and nudging with his foot beneath the table to wake Mina. "Whelp. Let's get you home."

Spock paused for a half second before following Pike out. He had said "home" so easily. Home. Not "house", but home. Ostensibly there was no place like it - it was where one's heart resided.

Such an easy word to say. . . too easy.

For himself, he had no idea where home was. . .

* * *

He was not tired.

The night was well along, but he had no inclination to sleep.

He had three boxes of school-related items packed, as well as one small refrigerator bag of fresh fruits and vegetables, and two boxes of recreational books and other items. Tomorrow morning he would pack what clothes he needed and what personal items he wished to take to the dorms with him. His _ka'athyra_ was in its case, and he had brought in the large potted _d'lechu_ that T'Pau had sent to him last year.

He placed the genuine-paper bound boxed-set Space Trilogy by C. S. Lewis he had recently acquired into the appropriate box, then sat down on the couch, at a loss for what to do next.

He was not tired.

It had been a major relief to return here tonight and find that all the ghosts of memory that had so oppressed him last week had fled by this time.

The sight of the clock in the hallway had not triggered the painful memories of his first visit here as a child, and the crock pot in the kitchen had not triggered his memories of when Leila had cooked dinner for him.

Nevertheless, he was eager to be away.

A strange urgency was upon him - as though this night's adventures had somehow changed him, and this house, ideal at it still was in many ways, no longer _fit_ him.

Perhaps he had simply grown up a little.

He decided to take a shower. Very likely there would not be time in the morning, so doing so now was logical.

Besides, he smelled of dance clubs and alley floors.

As hot water flowed around him for the second time that day, he considered T'Pring. Again. If dissolving the bond he had with her had not been essential before, it most _certainly_ was now. He was thankful for Christopher's made-up Human "ritual" for this at least - it had forced him out of his routine, and had shown him how little progress he had in fact made during his sojourn among Humanity.

He picked up the _th'laaxk'sa_ soap he had so missed this afternoon. The scent of the lather washed across his consciousness, then slammed onto his _katra_ like a waterfall pounding upon a stone.

A stinging flood of memories that were not his own rose before him.

 _He was a child, young and unaware, reaching across a_ t'hy'la _bond, rebuffed by cold, insistent silence._

_He was a teenager, frightened by a new thing, facing death or madness for the first time._

_He was a youth, proud and strong, unwilling or unable to admit to confusion, and so very alone._

_He was an adult, living an empty life, and always would, for the stupid and ugly reason that he always had._

The scent faded, and one of his own memories surfaced, reflecting itself through the bond-shield.

_Sa-kugalsu. . ._

Suddenly, _somehow_ , the anger, the hurt, the distrust. . . the _hate_ he bore for her flowed out of his fingertips and down the drain. At last, he understood.

For the first time in two years, he felt clean.

With a sigh of relief he dried himself, and began to dress for bed.

His stomach growled.

It was a fallacy to say that alcohol had _no_ effect on Vulcans, because it very much did - the effects were simply different than the ones experienced by Humans. On Vulcan, alcohol was a known appetite stimulant, and an important aid in water-retention, much like salt was to the Human system.

He should not be hungry at this time of night, but that did not change the fact that he was.

He was half dressed, and his hair was wet, but that did not matter. He was downstairs in moments, pouring himself some soymilk, spreading some almond butter on _shu'vasaya_ flatbread, and almost luxuriating in the familiarity of the flavors and textures.

Ah, but what he wouldn't give for Amanda to be here, sharing in this "midnight snack" with a mischievous grin and a fairy story to speed him back to bed.

He glanced casually at the stairs, halfway done with his impromptu meal, and already thinking about a meditation session before bed. He looked away. Looked again. He saw. . .

He saw. . .

He blinked.

He saw. . .

He saw a girl with her dark brown hair in a long swinging braid down her back, and glowing grey eyes like T'Pring's, only bright and joyful, with an expression like Amanda's. She was racing down the stairs, eager to talk to him.

" _Great-grandmother has named me her heir,_ sa-mekh. . ."

It was impossible, but still, he _saw_ her. _Heard_ her.

Leaving his half-eaten food, he ran back into the kitchen, and there, in his mind's eye, he saw a boy, tall like him, and with his pointed ears, but with wavy dark gold hair where his was smooth and black; and the youth looked at him with eyes so blue that one at least of his parents could not possibly be Vulcan. . .

" _Mother has asked me to make dinner tonight, Father. Can you aid me in properly preparing her most preferred recipes?_ "

He bolted upstairs to his bedroom, feverishly packing his clothes. He must _get out_ of this house. . . the memories. . .

_No. Not memories._

They were visions of what had never been. _Could never be_.

He blinked, and a vision of Leila coalesced behind him, her slender arms twining around his body, her face pressed into his neck.

He stood stock still, waiting.

" _I can't wait to meet your mother, Spock dear_ ," said the apparition, " _She must be just as sweet as you. . ._ "

He slammed his suitcase closed, unaware if everything he needed was in it, but not caring at this moment.

What was it Amanda had said about the Academy dorm rooms? They were "terribly impersonal". Yes. That was what he wanted, desperately. Terrible, terrible impersonality.

_It sounds like heaven. . ._

He tumbled his toiletries into a waterproof bag, then dumped both it and his suitcase next to the stack of boxes he had already packed. He looked at the couch. He would not sleep in his bed tonight. . .

A head with silky dark brown hair and pointed ears appeared beneath his chin. Arms that he never thought could show affection circled him, and held him steadily.

" _I understand now, my_ adun," she said, " _I will never again ask you to give up your Humanity_." The vision reached out to give him the _ozh'esta_ , " _Together we will become greater then the sum of us_."

Spock fled to the back yard, hastily kindling a fire in the small barbecue pit, and wrapped himself in the two wool blankets he had grabbed from the back of the couch.

He stared into the flames, not daring to close his eyes, lest another vision of an impossible future should come to him.

_The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did. . ._

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_Th'laax_ \- Vulcan myrrh. A thorny dwarf tree with purple-green leaves and ashy golden bark. Produces the resin _th'laaxk'sa._

 _ **Th'laaxk'sa**_ \- The resinous sap produced by the _th'laax_ tree. Commonly used in the preparation of incense, perfumes, lotions, and soaps. Culturally represents the state of being emotionally pure.

 _ **Sha'amii-thas**_ \- Vulcan goat's milk

 _ **Mh'gere**_ \- Vulcan term for the Terran sugar maple.

 _ **M'aih'nahr**_ \- Godmother, or adoptive mother. Literally "chosen mother".

 _Theris_ \- Vulcan style tea. Can be made from varying proportions of many different Vulcan herbs. Occasionally contains caffeine. Always theobromine-free.

 _ **Yon-yekuhl**_ \- Literally "red moss" or "flame moss". A bright orange-red colored species of edible moss that grows wild in the desert. Most commonly made into tea. Usually blended with _kh'aah_ , but often used alone in traditional Vulcan tea ceremonies. Slightly bitter, significantly astringent. Caffeine-free. The taste is somewhat akin to Terran rooibos tea. Culturally represents the concept of Familial or Platonic love.

 _ **Kh'aah**_ \- The most common type of Vulcan tea. Made from the dried leaves of the _kh'aa_ bush. The taste is very sweet, similar to Terran stevia. Often blended with _yon-yekuhl_ to balance the flavor.

 _Kh'aa_ \- A very dark brown colored shrub with light blue berries. Culturally represents innocence or moral uprightness.

 _ **Kharas'lor**_ \- Vulcan cane sugar. A lightly sweet substance refined from the soft edible pulp of the _khara_ bush-reed; a hardy desert plant with moisture-laden core.

 _ **Neik-pasu**_ \- Traditional Vulcan dining table. Usually made of lacquered wood. Very low to the floor; can be comfortably used while seated on a cushion.

 _ **A'nirih'nahr**_ \- Godfather, or adoptive father. Literally "chosen father".

 _Fonn'es_ \- Loyalty; devoted attachment and affection

 _ **G'teth-kh'ir**_ \- Vulcan coffee, or mocha. Made from the roasted berries of the _kh'aa_ bush. Contains a small amount of caffeine. Light blue in color, very sweet to the taste. Almost always made with steamed milk instead of water. A drink very popular with tourists.

 _ **Kau'nshaya**_ \- Literally "fusion", specifically the molecular fusion that takes place in stars. When used as a proper name, the term carries an implication of fusion of cultures as well as matter.

 _ **Tev-torsvii'far-doth**_ \- Poetry form. Literally "descending rhyme". Usually 10 lines in length, each line one syllable shorter than the previous. Common form for children's lullabies.

 _ **Ana'khana**_ \- One of the base languages for Modern Vulcan, much like Terran Latin.

 _ **Pen't'af**_ \- A type of sweet pudding usually made with the double-hulled Vulcan grain of the same name. Usually boiled in milk and spices until soft enough to be eaten. Akin to Terran rice pudding.

 _ **Ki'slar**_ \- Vulcan strawberries. Round, yellow-colored vine-fruits, with flat, disk-shaped seeds on their outer skin.

 _ **Bargot'ehk**_ \- Vulcan maccha/butter tea. Made from the leaves of the _bar-got_ herb. The taste is similar to Terran sweet bay. Usually roasted and ground to powder before use. Caffeine-free. Commonly whisked into a heated mixture of milk and butter, and drunk as a tea. Also can be used as a flavoring agent for a wide variety of substances. Culturally represents the virtue of generosity.

 _Na'shayalar_ \- Greetings; words or gestures of welcome

 _Be'hai'la_ \- Guest, or guests; any recipients of hospitality

 _ **Wehk-les'ek**_ \- "Our thanks to you are many" (Traditional Vulcan salutation)

 _Th'i-oxalra_ \- "Your actions are appreciated" (Modern Vulcan salutation)

 _Pok-tar_ \- A traditional Vulcan dish consisting of wide, flat noodles covered with a spicy cream-based sauce, and topped with very thinly sliced pickled vegetables.

 _Rhombolian Mollusks_ \- A species of black-shelled bivalve clam native to the Rhombol sector of the Varoth Sea, near the Na'Nam province. Locally cultivated for pearl-farming purposes, they are considered a delicacy to off-worlders. They are often sauteed in "Rhombolian butter" - a clarified milkfat that has been flavored with native spices.

 _Pret-armeel'i_ \- Flavorful Vulcan entrée, much like a mild vegetable curry. Served cold, kebab-style, with a tart yoghurt sauce.

 _ **Fhour'yon salad**_ \- Large, pale green pea-like legumes, in a light vinegar and citrus dressing.

 _Red plomeek_ \- Somewhat rare subspecies of the common purple plomeek. Slightly bitter.

 _Sheekuya n'a'na_ \- Vulcan beverage akin to vodka or gin. Flavor often described as "orange-mint". Clear light blue in color. Made from _ku'ya_ berries preserved in straight alcohol. Valued for its many medicinal uses. Served ice cold.

 _ **Ku'ya**_ \- Grayish-blue multi-stoned berries of the _le-sum'ka'stik_ shrub.

 _ **Le-sum'ka'stik**_ \- Literally "ice-plant". A desert succulent often cultivated for its edible water-bearing leaves.

 _Hirat_ \- Grape-like fruit, and the vine on which it grows. Has many varieties.

 _ **Sloh'ghaf-tor**_ \- Vulcan mead

 _ **Slor-ma'su**_ \- Honey

 _D'lechu_ \- A desert succulent similar to aloe.

Explanation of the poetry term "ottava rima" can be found at - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/glossary-term/ottava%20rima

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about Spock and Leila, please read the side story "Project". It is the first entry in my series "Land Where They May" found here - http://archiveofourown.org/series/229625


	12. Chapter Eleven

_"Ex Astris, Scientia",_ (From the Stars, Knowledge)

_\- Starfleet Academy motto_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

There was a little hollow in the earth right where the crossberry hedge thinned out to make room for the vegetable garden. It was just deep enough so that if you lay down on the bottom of it, you could not be seen from the house. It was carpeted so thickly with grass that it seemed to stay green even during the driest summers, and in some magical way it was naturally so well drained that it never held onto standing water, even during the rains. The sky was always bluer, the clouds always more fantastical, and the stars were always brighter when viewed from this hollow. For nearly one-hundred years now it had been prime country for blanket forts, and tea parties, for secret pow-wows to plan Mother's Day festivities, and of course, innumerable picnics had taken place here. Why, in just the last twenty-five years it had seen six first-dates, and six first-kisses, and yes, even six first-proposals (not that they all had been accepted). In fact, just last year. . .

She heard footsteps on the grass, and opened her eyes. A head appeared against her expansive view of twilit clouds.

"I thought I'd find you here."

"Hey, Dee."

He joined her on the soft blanket she had spread in the hollow, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head, careful not to disturb her as he lay down.

Dear Dee. He was everything she ought to look for in a man. Considerate, helpful, smart, caring. . .

"So, I know I can't compete with Starfleet guys. . ."

And just a little possessive.

She snorted. "Yeah, so what?"

"Well, um. . . I mean I know San Francisco is the other side of the planet, and I can't expect you to become a nun or something. . . and well. . .

She bit her lips to hold back a smile.

"Sudi Akula, are you breaking up with me?"

"Oh no, no no," he babbled, "I'm just letting you know - you're free."

"Oh Dee," this time she did smile. "I always have been. You know that."

"Well, yeah, but. . . I'm _trying_ to be a gentleman here. . ." Out if the corner of her eye, she saw him darken with a blush.

"Noted and appreciated," she said, soberly. "But. . . I'm not going this year."

"What?!" He sat up so he could look her in the face. " _Again_?"

"Yep. And, hey, third time's the charm, right?"

He shook his head, "You'd think, with your test scores. . ."

"It's an entrance exam, Dee - even if you pass, you might not be accepted. Hazard of the game."

He blew out his lips, and lay back down, muttering, "Huh. It'd be easier if you were white and male. . ."

She snorted again. "It would be easier if I wasn't Human."

"But Starfleet Academy is just another "forum for higher learning", right?" He turned to her, eyes wide and innocent. "Aren't they all supposed to accept based on merit now? By law?"

She barked a laugh. "First, that's a new legislation - new in government terms, anyway - twenty years isn't that long to get used to that kind of thing. Plus, it has all _sorts_ of caveats built into it to account for all the differences in intelligence types between species. For instance, a S'Gell can calculate so fast and so accurately that they have successfully substituted for navigational computers on some ships. No Human could compete with that. Does that mean Humans shouldn't be trained as mathematicians anymore? And, S'Gell make for _horrible_ doctors. They freely admit it themselves - they are terrible at understanding bio-chemistry. So what do we tell them? "You're accepted to do this, but not that"? What if a S'Gell _wants_ to major in bio-chem? What if he turns out to be the one person of his race that's _good_ at it? And so what if he _is_ terrible? Should that prevent him from learning about a subject he loves? It's a nice thought, but in practice, meritorious acceptance isn't at all easy to enforce, and it _is_ easy to slip through the cracks."

He harrumphed, like the camel in the old story, but said nothing.

"And secondly," she continued, "Terran-based colleges and universities might well _be_ meritocracies now." She shrugged a little. "It's debatable, but a case can be made. But Starfleet still has non-Human quotas to meet, as speciesist as that is, and as much as they deny it." She sighed. "Nope, if I want to go into space and be at all reputable about it, it's either the Academy entrance exam again next year, or I just swallow my pride and enlist and then work my way up to a position where someone important realizes I could probably benefit from a few years of Academy training."

"But that means wasting time."

"I'm wasting time _here_ , Dee!"

He sighed. They had had this conversation several times before. . .

"What about the VSA?"

She shook her head violently. "No way in the universe. They'd have to get over that _huge_ issue of cultural bias they have sticking out of them like a sore thumb. Even M'Benga wasn't good enough for them."

"Didn't he intern there?"

"Yep. _Not_ the same as actually being accepted at the school."

"True. . ." but he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Pshh, even _Spock_ saw through their bullcrap and picked Starfleet instead."

"The Vulcan Ambassador's son? Yeah, I remember hearing that the VSA didn't accept his application, even though his exam scores were the best they'd seen in generations."

She rolled her eyes. "And _I've_ heard that he was accepted to _both_ Starfleet and the VSA, but he turned the VSA down because he had received confirmation of his acceptance to Starfleet one day earlier, and he considered that a verbal agreement he had to keep."

"That's ridiculous."

"No," she poked him lightly in the ribs. "That's a _rumor_. I don't think either one is accurate. I think it was just that he was smart enough to see that Starfleet is the better option."

"After they turn you down twice you _still_ think that?"

"Dee, you've asked me to marry you twice. . ."

"Yeah well, I wasn't asking you to be my _job_. There are more important things than work, Tau."

She smiled at the old nickname. He was the only one who called her that anymore. The only one who was _allowed_ to, come to think of it. . .

Once, while learning to write her name in cursive, she had run the last two letters of her first name up against the first letter of her last name. It made it look like she had a silly middle name and two mutilated real names. The whole Primary school had laughed about it until she had declared Tau as her favorite number, and since they hadn't known what Tau meant, she won the upper hand on the situation, and had kept it.

She supposed that ought to help her to understand something about Dee's attitude towards jobs as well. After all, he'd scarcely gotten anything but "A Boy Named Su" while in Primary school, and hadn't been able to overcome the teasing as well as she had. Then, in Secondary, the teenagers teased him about his last name so much that even though he showed good promise of being a first-rate geneticist, he had given it up, saying he'd rather sweep streets than be called "Dr. Akula" in a cheesy Central European accent ever again.

He'd become a landscape artist instead, and an extremely good one, but. . . to give up something you loved because of how other people perceived you. . .

She partially knew how he felt. She had perpetually been bombarded with "Ny Ny, Ny Ny Ny Ny - Hey Hey Hey - Goodbye" throughout her Secondary school years. She hadn't let the stupid bullying interfere with her dreams though. Granted, she seldom told anyone her first name anymore - unless they earned it first by proving themselves a non-jerk, of course. Regardless, her skin was a thousand times thicker than Dee's.

Darling Sudi. It was so easy for her to love him. And so difficult for her to respect him.

"Well, that may be so," she said, standing and shooing him off the blanket so she could shake it and fold it up. "But in the meantime, the Nairobi spaceport gets plenty of subspace transmissions that their Universal Translator can't handle, so I'll get plenty of practice at what I'm good at, in a job I like, while I'm waiting for the one I really want."

He finished helping her fold the blanket, his hand resting on hers for a moment as he handed it to her. "Can I walk you back to the house?"

She looked at their hands, glowing in the rosy twilight, his skin coarser and just a shade lighter than hers, his hand so much bigger and stronger - a worker's hands.

Everything she ought to want. . .

She looked into his eyes, and saw love there, and generosity, and honest, openhearted trust, but no dreams, no imagination. . . no _wisdom_. . .

She hugged the blanket to her chest, breaking their skin contact.

"Of course, Dee." She smiled. "Of course."

* * *

They walked slowly under the long and long row of fig trees that shaded the long and long track leading to the door of the house; the track that stretched back now one-hundred years, when the first Grandfather Uhura had planted a fig tree for his newborn grandson, the first baby born in the new house he had bought, the first baby in his family for ten generations that would not know war, or the aftermath of war. That first fig tree had a plaque on it, with the name Kamari engraved on it, and every tree afterwards had a plaque, with the names of the babies born in their great house. Even the unborn were given names and had plaques - the lives they would have had were symbolically lived out by their trees, which were tended with as much love as if they had been Human.

At the last curve of the track, there they were - her family that she knew.

Sudi knew not to talk to her while they passed by them.

There was her grandmother, her tree as bent and as wrinkled and as tough and bearing just as sweet a fruit as the woman whose name it bore. Grandmother, who lived now in the new house her father had built just for her when Grandfather died.

There were two uncles then, and two aunts next, and then Daddy, his tree happy and strong, with wide reaching arms that loved you more than his own life. Daddy, who had planted the next six trees, but died before he could plant the seventh.

There was Sanura, the tallest tree in this part of the row, her eldest sister, working now as a restaurant owner and chef in Nairobi, her husband mending speeders.

There was Kamari, named after their father, who was named after his grandfather, and back and back, father after father, until you could not see the end of the trail of fathers for the dust of time. He was the only one, of all her brothers and sisters, whose eyes looked up, and out, and beyond. Like her. He had a shipping company, small, but successful, and always ready to go anywhere in the galaxy. . . anywhere.

Then was Dauid, who was so like Mamma, so round and jolly and content. His tree needed more water than most, but it wasn't grudged him. Hadn't he become the most sought after musician in the hemisphere? Hadn't he made the name of Uhura a great name? He split his time between London and New York, but he always remembered the house in which he first learned to sing.

Then there were Hasana and Hadiya, their slim trees close together, branches intertwining, and roots too, no doubt, as befitted twins. But they were seldom together except for here - Hasana gleefully globe-trotting, taking lush holos, and writing delicious articles for the Terran Tourist Commission, and Hadiya traveling all over too, from city to city, from gallery to gallery, making and selling her sculptures and her paintings.

And then there was her, the youngest of the six, her tree just barely old enough to fruit, but wholly unremarkable otherwise.

At the last there were four more, all too young and small to give shade yet: Sanura's daughter, born here before she had moved into Nairobi; Hadiya's son, who lived here when he did not stay with his father; and Kamari's twins, a boy and a girl, who lived here along with their mother whenever he would be away more than two months.

She wondered how it was possible to be haunted by the people you had grown up among, and furthermore, who were still alive. But they were all voices in her head, demanding to be listened to whenever a pertinent situation presented itself.

Sudi did not speak, even after they had passed them all. She was grateful to him.

It was another hundred meters, uphill, to the house, and she did not want to talk.

He didn't try to kiss her when they reached the door either - he just smiled a little and started to walk back down the path without a word.

Her heart clutched to watch him go, but, oddly, not because he was leaving.

It was because, at the end of the day, for all his strength, and for all his love, she just couldn't picture him ever planting a fig tree.

* * *

Sanura had sent over dinner, as usual. She always said she did it because Mamma had cooked huge meals often enough while raising them, and now she had enough to do keeping that big rambling house clean, her garden watered, and her grandchildren out of trouble. But everyone knew that Nura sent over dinners - and sometimes breakfasts and lunches too - because Mamma was not the best of cooks, and even if she had been, there was no doubt that Nura was one of the best chefs around, everyone said so, and so there was no reason for her _not_ to send full meals home from her restaurant, which was doing splendidly, such a success, and why shouldn't her family share in it?

In any case, she was thankful for her sister as she unpacked the dishes from their heavy heat-retaining packaging, while Mamma set the table. It made things a lot easier when you didn't have to be bound hand and foot to the stove three times a day, in a household that stubbornly refused to get a replicator ever since the things had become generally available.

She sighed, setting the large soup tureen down in front of her mother's place.

For a wonder, both Hasana and Hadiya were here tonight, both back from office and studio, and both being mostly civil to each other, though their tongues were still sharp. They both still officially lived here, of course - why buy a house of your own when you will spend most of your time either at work or out of town? But it was far more usual for one to be gone and the other to be present, or vice-versa, and when they did happen to have time off at the same time, it was common for there to be that particular kind of great loud argument, which employed much gesturing and yelling and flying pillows and wads of paper - the kind of argument that two sisters who loved each other deeply sometimes could not live without.

It was just the four of them, the children all either away at school or with their parents. They sat down together, all at one end of the many-leaved table, and Mamma said grace, The Lord's Prayer, quickly, in Kiswahili.

" _Baba yetu uliye mbinguni,_

_Jina lako litu kuzwe,_

_Ufalme wako uje,_

_Mapenzi yako yatimizwe,_

_Hapa duniani kamahuko mbinigun,_

_Utupe leo riziki yetu,_

_Utusamehe deni zetu,_

_Kama sisi nasi tuwasamehevyo wadeni yetu,_

_Na usitutie majarabuni,_

_Lakini utuokoe na yule mwovu,_

_Kwa kuwa ufalme ni wako,_

_Na nguvu,_

_Na utukufu,_

_Hata milele,_

_Amina_ "

" _Amina_ " echoed around the table, and then Hasana started the _kachumbari_ while Mamma ladled out the fresh peanut soup.

She herself served out the fried slices of _ugali_ for this, the first course, wondering all the time how long it would take for Diya to start in on the teasing, and it wasn't long.

"Nura keeps getting better with the soup," Diya said to Sana, who couldn't cook.

"Yes," said Sana, to Diya, who could not spell. "It is almost as good as the article she wrote for _Modern Chef_ , don't you think? So many big words."

"What do you think, Nyo?" said Diya. "Is our Nura getting better at her craft?"

She smiled. "I think we all have our strengths and our weaknesses, and Nura not least of us."

"Now then," said Mamma, "we won't be talking about them that can't be here to talk on their own behalf." Mamma took a comfortable bite of _ugali_ dipped in soup, "We should ask Nyo about her Starfleet entrance exam, I think."

She forced a grin. "Next year, I think. . ."

"Awww, Nyo," said Sana, "why waste your time on them anymore? You're an Uhura! You can go places."

"That's just what I'm trying to do."

"No, I mean, _places_ ," said Sana, emphatically. "Not just offworld places. I mean you can _be_ someone."

"Maybe," she said. "But I want to see more of the universe than Earth - there's so much out there, so much we don't even know about yet!"

"But there is so much right _here_ , _mahabubu_ ," said Diya. "I, for instance, am going to Santiago, in Chile, next month, to display my big driftwood and paper statues, and just look at Sana - her next assignment will take her to Finland, of all places. Surely you must find these things interesting."

"Oh, I do -" she said, serving out the second course of _nyama na irio_ with fresh, sauteed collard greens - "but I happen to want more, is all."

"It's dangerous to want more -" said Mamma, ladling more gravy onto her plate - "but then, dangerous women can go places much more often than safe women." She winked at her daughters, and the teasing suddenly stopped.

"I have often thought of working for the Martian Colony," said Sana, contemplatively. "They need some _serious_ help with their tourism advertisements."

"And I would love to go to Rigel," said Diya. "Do you know they have found ancient goddess carvings there that date back almost two _million_ years?" Diya sighed, "What inspiration!"

Sana laughed a short, hard laugh, "And to _you_ inspiration is more important than execution!"

"And so what if it is?" Diya snapped back, "At least I never make my art _to order_. All my work has a _soul_."

"Yes, so much soul there's nothing real in it to take a hold of!"

"It is better than writing like a piece of stale bread!"

"At least I can _spell_ bread. . ."

Mamma grinned at her, ignoring the twins' hissing and scratching, "Here, Nyo, _mpenzi wangu_ ," she said, and served her some candied sweet potatoes, Nura's signature dessert. "Don't pay them any mind. You have heart enough to do whatever you want, my love."

As she ate her sweet potatoes, and the noise of the squabble rose and fell, she leaned back in her chair, and knew with a certainty that no matter where she ended up in her life - lightyears away on a planet no one had yet named; or just kilometers down the road, translating subspace transmissions for the rest of her days - this table, and these people, would always be where she felt the most at home.

* * *

She opened the small window above the head of her bed. She was kneeling comfortably on her pillow, sniffing the sweet night air and thinking.

_What would Daddy think of me applying to Starfleet?_

That had been the unspoken question at dinner, that no _would_ ever ask; firstly because it would be rude, and secondly because _they_ all knew, each to their own personal satisfaction, just what Daddy would have said, and they trusted she had known him well enough to know this, as well.

But had she?

Probably. If someone so wonderfully loving as her Daddy could be said to have favorites, then she was probably the closest thing he had had to one. He had often told her of the night she was born, with her mother in such distress that he actually _wished on a star_ for the safety of his wife and newest child. Of course that was where her name had come from, but Daddy had been the least superstitious person imaginable, and for him to tell her that story at all proved that she had held a special place in that huge, loving heart.

He had also worked for the Interplanetary Trading Commission before it joined the Starfleet corporate umbrella, and had encouraged her in all her curiosities about other languages, distant planets, and space travel.

Yes, she probably knew what he would have said.

But, what _would_ he have said? It was one thing to think you were sure you knew, but it was another to hear it actually said.

Mamma, of course, agreed with everything her children wanted to do with their lives. Mamma was the kind of sweet, comfortable person that would make for a very bad world if there were too many of her, she thought. But there was only one Mamma, and she _had_ been very careful to instill a very strong sense of right and wrong into her and all her siblings.

Of course, that was one of the things that Daddy had loved about Mamma, because he had felt the same way about right and wrong too. . .

Right up to the point of quarantining himself while on his last trading run, so that the rest of his crew would not catch the then unnamed and still unexplained virus that killed him.

The investigators said it must have been living on one of the crates of Whu'gearan ribbon-grass, as her Daddy was the only one who had had confirmed contact with them. But they still did not know for sure what the virus had been, or exactly how it had killed him. He had spoken to the ship's doctor right after he began experiencing symptoms, of course, but for two days they thought it was Gessan smallpox, and then they thought it was Tarkelian fever, and then they thought it was something else, and on and on. . . And her Daddy had refused to go to Sickbay, frightened of contaminating any more places on the ship, and the doctor had to wear an enviro suit and be beamed directly into Daddy's quarters, forced to rely only upon his tricorder readings to make a diagnosis - not the best of situations when you did not actually know what was wrong, as any doctor would tell you.

And after it was all over, they were obliged to incinerate everything in her Daddy's room aboard the ship. It had been his last order, and it had been followed.

Other than the personal logs he kept religiously right up until the end - and in which he had personally addressed each one of his family - the only things they had left of him were his tree, of course, the pile of trinkets and gadgets he liked to tinker with in his spare time, and one magnificently framed Federation Citation of Honor that hung in the living room, above the mantelpiece, and right below a framed holo of Daddy himself. The first, and so far, only time such a high honor had been awarded to a civilian.

She sighed, turning around and settling into bed.

In her eyes, none of that had made him a hero, it just made him _gone_. He had been a hero to her for ages before he saved a few dozen strangers' lives. She would have preferred it if he had saved himself. . .

Quietly, her mother came in to wish her goodnight.

"What are you thinking on, Little One?" Mamma asked, seeing her pensive face, almost on the verge of tears.

"Daddy," she said, unashamed.

"Ah, yes," said Mamma, with a sad smile. "I always think of him too, and of the days when he was courting me. Do you know he used to take me to Mombasa? We had a beach house there, and such fun times! It was there I learned to love the sea, which I had never really known before."

"And he taught me to love the stars," she said, laughing at her mother's remembrances, but still thinking her own thoughts. "I think about them all the day, Mamma."

"Ah, my child," sighed Mamma, "the day is not over yet. . ."*

"I shall dream of them too, you know, Mamma. I always do."

"Then _lala salama,_ my sweet one," said Mamma, and kissed her on her forehead, and left her room, gently closing the door.

She decided it didn't matter what Daddy would have said. He had always told her to chase her dreams. That was enough.

When her eyes finally closed that night, she dreamed of brave new worlds.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

(This glossary is of **Swahili** words only. I did not make any of these words up. For a Swahili-to-English dictionary, please go to - http://africanlanguages.com/swahili/)

 _Kachumbari_ \- Fresh tomato, onion and chili pepper salad, salted to taste.

 _Ugali_ \- Cornmeal flour cooked in salted water to a dough-like consistency. Often served sliced, with meat-stew or a tomato-based sauce.

 _Nyama na irio_ \- A mash of potatoes and green peas with whole, soft-cooked corn kernels added. Traditionally includes sliced grilled beef or goat steak, but can occasionally include broiled chicken or fish.

 _Mahabubu_ \- Darling

 _Mpenzi wangu_ \- My dear.

 _Lala salama_ \- Sleep well.

The Lord's Prayer in Swahili can be found here - http://www.bread.org/help/church/worship/prayers/lords-prayer-in-swahili.html

Information about Kenyan food can be found here - http://migrationology.com/2011/06/kenyan-food-overview-20-of-kenyas-best-dishes/

 ***Cultural Note** \- In Kiswahili based cultures, a day begins at sunrise.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

**A/N** \- Kenya is a real place, with real people living there. Swahili is a real language, and real people speak it. If you see anything here that is egregiously inaccurate, or just plain wrong, please feel free to PM me. Research can only go so far, and I would appreciate your input.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_"And space will grant each man new hope; as sleep brings dreams of home."_

_\- Captain Richard Robau_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

There was a beach a half-kilometer west by southwest of Starfleet Academy's southwesternmost campus property. It was a tiny patch of pebbly sand that nearly disappeared during high tide, and was entirely inaccessible from other beaches even during low tide. At its widest point, it never measured more than eight meters across, and the cliff was angled so that if one sat at the very base of the cliff, you could not be seen by anyone walking along the top. So small and insignificant was it that it did not even have a name, while most beaches in the area did, even other very small ones. Even more condemning, the only way to reach it was by a precarious-looking old steel ladder that had once been painted white, but now trailed its nearly unused rusty rungs down the side of the rocks. Though it only looked unsafe, few, if any, dared to brave it anymore. But if someone ever happened to do so, the golden sand and quiet rolling rush of waves was an ample reward. It was a miniscule treasure - private, clean, and so close to the most successful of the Coastal Restoration Society's re-populated abalone beds that sometimes the unique tusk-shaped pearls of the abalone could actually be found washed up on the sand.

He heard the dull thudding of feet on the long rusty ladder, only just louder than the hissing beat of the waves, and he opened his eyes. A face and figure he knew well appeared beside him.

"Oh, _there_ you are."

"Greetings, Tia."

"I've been _looking_ for you."

She sounded so relieved to have found him that he immediately rose and activated the folding mechanism on his portable chair. "That is apparent - how may I be of service?"

"I'm sorry," she said, wringing her hands, as she often did whenever she happened to interrupt his meditative states, clearly showing that she did not _want_ to do so. He appreciated her concern. "But it's your turn to make dinner tonight, and I went and invited Pella and Kien over before I remembered. . ."

"It is of no consequence," he slung his folded chair over his shoulder and walked the few steps up to the base of the ladder. "I assume these are the same friends which you have mentioned before, and who, if my memory serves, would not object to a garlic and spinach _bolani_ with poached eggs?"

"Oh no," she said, following him up the ladder, "That would be fine."

"And is it acceptable for _you_?"

She laughed. "Just because I was brought up in Texas doesn't mean I can't appreciate a meal that does not contain meat, you know." With a quiet grunt she swung herself onto the cliff top. "Mostly I just wanted you to know what I had done, and you aren't _obligated_ to cook, of course. . ."

"Naturally not," he replied, "but it is as easy to prepare for four as it is for two."

"Maybe it is for _you_ , Doc Ock," she teased, in obvious relief, and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "But practically anyone else would either be upset, or insist I use the replicator - or tell me to just take my friends out to a restaurant or something."

He turned down the pathway to the Academy dorms, keeping his face stoic, but he did not expect his stoicism to induce her to lessen her teasing - she had been chivvying him and calling him that incomprehensible nickname for almost three months now, regardless of his reaction. She had begun doing it practically immediately upon moving into the duplex dormitory-apartment they now shared. He held back a sigh.

"That is, as I have said before, a most illogical nickname."

She fell into stride with him, "Mmmhmm -" she hummed with some sarcasm, and flipped her long waves of black hair over her shoulder with a defiant twist, "- and remind me, please, just _how many_ masters degrees you have?"

He looked at her sidelong, not for the first time appreciative of his superior peripheral vision that allowed him to fully appreciate her glowing olive-golden skin and straight, strong profile. . . without being obvious about it, of course. Her teasing always caused her face to shine with an active mischief that was strangely compelling. . .

Again he held back a sigh. "Following the completion of my current thesis on the xenobiology of space-capable extremophiles, I will possess the equivalent of eight PhD's," he said, in his usual tone of flat factualism. " _If_ one accepts my citation for honorable service from VSEF and my honorary title of "Cultural Expert" from the Federation Interplanetary Ambassadorial Association as "degrees" in the first place, and also if you realize that my three degrees issued by other planetary institutions are quite different, and not called anything similar to " _Philosophiae Doctor"_ when. . ."

She laughingly interrupted. "And you _still_ think "Doc Ock" is not an appropriate nickname for you? Pah!"

He clenched his jaw slightly before saying - "The simple fact is that I do not in the least resemble a fictional "super-villain" with four prosthetic arms and several personality disorders; nor am I representative of _any_ particular character in Terran booklets of classic sequential art. I fail to see the slightest logical similarity."

"You have eight doctorates." She grinned. "Doc. Ock. Logic your way out of _that_ one, buddy."

"I do not possess eight doctorates. . ."

She growled in frustration. "Fine! Okay. Explain _my_ nickname to me."

"Why would you wish - "

"Look, just _do_ it."

"Very well." He held back yet another sigh. "Your full name is Oliveria Dorotea Ramos Herrera. Since your mother made a practice of calling you by your second name, most people also call you "Dorotea", or some version thereof. The last syllable of that name is similar to the Spanish word for "aunt" - namely "tía". You are generally accepted as a kind and caring person - "motherly" but without yet being a mother - and this is similar to most Terran concepts of an aunt's social role. These two aspects are merged in your nickname - "Tia". It is a simple case of socio-grammatic association."

She smiled. "You mean it's a 'play on words'?"

"In an overly simplified sense, yes. It is wordplay."

She laughed a loud barking laugh and pointed at him, "A-HA! Hoist with your own petard!" She laughed again, in triumph, he assumed. "'Doc Ock' is wordplay too. The last three letters of your given name happen to rhyme with the first syllable of your numerous achievements, and coincidentally, with the first syllable of _exactly_ how many of those achievements you actually have - or _will have_ , whatever - point is, it's too good a play on words not to use it."

"It is still illogical."

She shook her head as they approached their shared quarters. "Of course it is. I'm Human, you know."

"I am aware," he answered quietly, as she opened the door to the common room, slipped inside, and made for her portion of the private rooms.

He watched her go.

"I am aware," he repeated, when she was out of earshot. He put his folded chair away, washed his hands, and began to prepare dinner.

* * *

As he chopped and sauteed the spinach, he contemplated this new friendship of his.

For once at least, a dalliance was out of the question - she was happily engaged to a fellow Starfleet engineer. And thankfully, Christopher entirely agreed with his intentions to refrain from disrupting their relationship in any way. Lieutenant Commander Frederick Belmonte was on assignment at the moment, and she was taking a one-semester refresher course in Applied Technologies while she waited for his tour to be over and they could marry.

They were a very happy couple, and they both approved of her present living arrangements.

Apparently, being a Vulcan meant you were instinctively trusted.

He had been quite scrupulous in maintaining that trust.

He prepared an oven-safe cooking tray with baking paper, and preheated the oven.

But, no matter how satisfactory his present situation was, there was an odd thing lurking in the back of his mind whenever Tia was present, or whenever he thought of her. He had tried naming the thing, but the closest he had yet come was that she could not do wrong in his eyes. She was an erring, mortal Human being, and in his opinion, she was perfect.

Illogical.

 _Illogical_ _**and** _ _unacceptable._

From the first moment she had descended on the duplex quarters - which Dean Paalach had _promised_ he would not have to share - any teasing of hers, no matter how generally distasteful to him, was not disagreeable when she said it. And such teasing had started immediately, and had yet to show any signs of ameliorating. And any of her other foibles - for she had several - were somehow not in the least a cause for him to complain, simply because they were _her_ personality flaws. He had never complained to the Dean about having to share when he had been promised privacy, and he instinctively stood up for her whenever anyone visited them and their quarters' appearance was less than ideal. Had she been quite literally anyone else, he would have spoken to her about such things as her tendency to leave dirty laundry all over the common area, or the now five times she had spilled apple juice all over the kitchen counter and had not cleaned it up - he would have spoken to her about these things at the _very_ least. But with Tia, they did not even merit more than a momentary thought.

Then, on the reverse side, no matter how much good she did, she could not be praised enough, nor could even her well-earned commendations ever fully reward her. His opinion of her was quite untenably high. He had a very strange feeling that if she were ever to come to him and say she had committed a crime, his instinctual reaction to such a revelation would be to help her conceal it, not to see that justice was served, as he ought to do.

It was an unsought and unwanted set of emotions, niggling at the back of his mind like a frustrating fragment of fiber caught in the back of his teeth. And paradoxically, it often made him far more sharp and combative with her than he intended to be, as evidenced by their conversation just now.

Not for the first time, he wondered if this was what Humans called a "crush".

_It must be. There is no other word._

He had never been on the obsessor's side of a crush before, and as uncomfortable as being the object of such emotions was, he found that it was far more incomprehensible and annoying to be the instigator.

He had no idea _where_ this thing had come from. It was simply _there_.

He put a pot of water on to boil, removed the raw _bolani_ dough and eight eggs from the stasis unit, then crushed and peeled eight cloves of garlic and began to mince them.

It was not in the least like anything he had felt for anyone before. Not Leila, certainly, and not for T'Pring, ever. Leila, he now understood, had been a "fling" - or, at least, the closest his personality type could come to such a term. And the most he had ever felt for T'Pring was curiosity, and perhaps a few grains of a twisted kind of pity - the sort of feelings that were easily suppressed, but not nearly so easily forgotten. He had spent a great deal more time with feelings _against_ her than he had _for_ her - and nothing in all that tangle came anywhere near to what this thing was for Tia. Perhaps. . . perhaps it was similar to what Christine had felt for _him_ \- perhaps - but if so, that had been a brief encounter, and did not need to be considered overmuch.

Though he still did. . . for reasons he was not able to adequately explain to himself.

But _this_ , this feeling for Tia, was a senseless and obsessive desire to put a woman on a pedestal - whether she had earned it or not, and whether it was a right thing for him to desire to do or not.

He did not even know if this was a Human reaction or a Vulcan one. It did bear some resemblance to _shan'hal'lak_ , but as it was not in this case accompanied with physical desire, it most likely was not. He had also, of course, previously observed the Human reaction of "love at first sight", and this bore little to resemblance to that phenomenon either. His heart did not go "thump" when Tia entered a room, he did not fantasize about rescuing her from grievous harm, and he certainly did not wish her to dissolve her engagement so she could "elope" with him. In fact, he found he had very little _physical_ attraction to her at all. If he analyzed his cellular and hormonal reactions - which was, of course, far easier to do than qualifying his mental state - then he would have said she was like a sister to him, or a valued friend of the family.

It was only that she was, in his view, quite simply perfect.

It was thoroughly illogical, and increasingly worrisome.

He slid the now stuffed _bolani_ into the oven, and had half turned to see to the eggs before Castor began arching against his legs, giving his deep rumble of a purr. He looked, and there was Pollux also, standing next to their food bowls, miaowing quietly. He refrained from petting Castor, as that would have meant the extra time of washing his hands again before he could see to the eggs, and the water was almost boiling. Instead, he went over to the small replicator the kitchenette was equipped with, dialing it to complex proteins.

"Four ounces minced raw tuna fillet," he ordered the machine, "and two teaspoons of Feline Vitamin Supplement number 15." When the containers had materialized, he carefully poured the vitamins over the fish, and then split the mixture evenly between the two cats now waiting most impatiently for their dinner. They fell upon the food as though they were still the barely-alive scraps of fur and bones he had discovered on his doorstep five months ago, instead of the twin terrors of pampered housecats they now were.

He opened his mouth to reprimand them for their greediness, but before he could do so, he heard the water boiling behind him. Quickly, he moved the pot to a cold burner, and as soon as the water became still he cracked four of the eggs expertly into it.

Pella J'merr and Kien Urlen - the two Human cadet friends of Tia's - entered the common room just then.

"Mmm - smells good in here!" exclaimed Pella, her floor-length dark brown braid swinging in excitement. She took a quick look around, touched Kien's elbow, and then disappeared into Tia's half of the apartment.

He had never met these two before, but Tia had told him about them. According to her, they had both been raised offworld, were both majoring in Starship Navigation and Piloting, both shared Tia's love of sports, and had been dating each other for approximately ten months. Pella was the captain of the swimming team, as well as participating in several other on-campus activities, while Kein was Primary commander of the Starfleet Parrises Squares team this season.

"Sure does," Kein said, nodding to Pella, then waving to him and coming over to the kitchen. The young man had highly patterned tattoos covering the palms of both his hands, as was the custom on Lerthan VI, where he had grown up. "Tia called us a minute ago and said you were going to cook for us - I'm Kein, by the way - it's spelled with an i but it's still pronounced Ken." He reached out to shake hands with him before he apparently noticed his host's pointed ears and stoic demeanor. "Oh. . . you're Vulcan. . . sorry, Tia didn't say. . ."

"It is of no consequence," he said, with as friendly an expression as he knew how. "How do you do? I believe that is the proper phrase. . ." He raised his mental shields and extended his hand.

"Sure thing," said Kein, giving his hand a brief, firm shake. "Anyway, what's for dinner? Smells great and the game left me with a very healthy appetite tonight."

"You refer to the semi-final round of the Parrises squares tournament that is currently in progress at the Academy?"

"Yep," said Kein, yawning and throwing himself onto the couch in a manner that would have been arrogant if he had not been so clearly worn out, "So, you ever going to tell me what you're making?"

"Indeed," he said, slightly amused at this young man, and completely unsurprised that Tia liked him, "Poached eggs with Afgani flatbread stuffed with spinach and garlic," he picked up a slotted spoon to drain said eggs, and then brought the pot back up to a boil.

"Sounds as good as it smells," said Kein, grinning. "Got anything for an _apéritif_?"

Interesting. The young man's French accent was impressive for a person not raised in France. Somehow, that inherent bit of multiculturalism was. . . reassuring.

"Alcohol is not permitted in dorm rooms, but there are bottles of fruit juice in that cupboard," he told him, pointing.

As Kein went to retrieve some juice, Pella and Tia re-entered the room, and for several minutes there was only laughter and excited questionings about the game Kein had participated in that afternoon.

He quashed the impulse to compliment Tia on her knowledge of some of the more obscure rules of Parrises squares, instead taking this time to remove the hot _bolani_ from the oven. Then, he quickly poached four more eggs before plating everything and setting the table.

"Ladies and gentleman, dinner is served," he said, solemnly interrupting the cheery discussion.

They came over, Pella exclaiming, "Mmm, looks great! Do you mind if I. . . ?"

Tia gestured for her to go ahead.

As the girl folded her hands, clearly meaning to pray, he noticed for the first time that her eyebrows were shaven, and each replaced with three golden ring-stud piercings. Such was the traditional symbol for an unmarried woman from the Dekan clan of Yallsa II. If she had been so much among them during her formative years as to carry such a mark, would she, he wondered briefly, also be of their religion? For a moment he halfway hoped she would sing the Chant Of The Earthen God, but she did not. Instead, she quietly and solemnly quoted the Book of Common Prayer.

"Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

Kein grinned affectionately at her when she had finished. She reached over to him and squeezed his hand. Then she turned to Tia.

"I'm sorry - that's just such a habit with me. . ."

Tia laughed, "That's quite all right."

He was pouring chilled spice tea for Pella when she turned to him.

"You must think that being at all religious in these times is terribly illogical. . ."

He poured tea for Kein before answering.

"On the contrary. Religion is neither logical nor emotional - it is a fruit of living." He poured for Tia and himself. "I think you will find that even the most ardent atheist believes in something they cannot empirically prove. This does not necessarily make them illogical - but it does make them mortal." He cut precisely into his _bolani_. "It is a general commonality between all peoples."

Pella was smiling, but Tia looked at him wide-eyed.

"Seriously? You're really going to have _this_ discussion at the dinner table?"

"Pella was the one that broached the subject. And I believe you should be appreciative that I am willing to make _any_ sort of conversation at the dinner table."

"Yeah, it took me long enough to break you of that "silence is golden" habit, true enough." She chewed a bite of egg in his direction.

"Refraining from speech during a meal is not habitual, it is _traditional_ , and - "

"And you're about to bring up logic, but please don't."

"But logic is the key to understanding - "

"The meta within the physical, yeah yeah, I know." She sighed. "Look, I'd rather enjoy my food while talking about a subject that _doesn't_ make me want to one-shot a beer bong so I can forget just how much I actually know about a thing _I don't want to know about_."

"Consuming alcohol in that manner is hazardous."

Tia sighed. "I know. I was also kind of hoping you'd focus on all the _other_ words in that sentence."

"Do you wish me to remain silent during the meal?"

"Yes!"

"You do not now find silence during meals unnecessarily Vulcan?"

She did not answer, instead giving him the kind of look that Amanda would probably describe as "dirty stank eye".

Both Pella and Kein were heroically attempting not to laugh. Kein grinned knowingly. "Tia told me you were good friends, but I didn't know how good until now."

"I do not understand the Terran predilection for such copious amounts of teasing," he said blandly, "But Tia has allowed me to become used to it. To an extent."

Tia snorted. "Says the smart-alec who has been doing nothing _but_ tease me since this conversation started."

"My name is not Alec."

Tia rolled her eyes. Kein came to the rescue.

"So, what ship are you assigned to for your Senior's Mission?"

"The _Carrington_."

The young man looked instantly interested.

"Ohhhh. Challenger class, isn't it?"

"Indeed. Captain Pike requested a larger vessel for this mission, given that we will be aiding in the colonization of Gestus VIII."

He grinned lopsidedly, "Pike is a really good captain."

"My experience leads me to agree."

"Anything else interesting on the mission agenda?"

He shrugged slightly, "Not a great deal. We will be surveying the Talos cluster, and delivering some supplies and personnel to space station 17. All in all it is slated to be a mostly standard Senior's mission."

Kein gestured with his fork. "No, no - it sounds exciting. You excited?"

"It would be illogical to be so."

"Oh. . . right. . ." Kein's skin was too dark to show a blush, but his expression was one of profound embarrassment. He scratched behind his ear. "Um. . . How did your Kobayashi Maru test go?"

"I was not required to take it."

Everyone, even Tia, set down their forks and stared at him.

"R-really?" said Kein, stuttering, "That's. . . I've never heard of that. . . _especially_ for Command track students."

He admitted to himself that their surprise surprised him. Had they _no_ logic? He shook his head minutely. "I am on the Sciences track - the height of my ambitions for command are First Officer. A captaincy may come, but it is not my main goal. And my status as a Vulcan citizen reveals everything that could be learned about my emotional state if I were to be faced with a no-win scenario. Besides this, I have already faced four real-world situations that match that description while I was in command of a Vulcan starship. My instructors realize that any attempt to garner more information about me from such an exercise would be superfluous and illogical."

They all seemed to accept this explanation, and without further comment, they slowly went back to eating.

At this juncture, Castor decided he had been ignored long enough, and jumped up onto the chair. He sat down calmly on his master's lap, his grey-furred head just showing over the edge of the table.

Then Pollux mewled warningly, and with a thudding jump, landed on his left shoulder. Neither cat made any more noise, but both stayed stoically upon him for remainder of the meal.

Pella laughed at them. "You know, I must say I'm just a bit surprised you have cats, sir. Pets don't seem very. . . well, logical."

"You may call me by my given name. I am no one's superior as of yet," he said, stroking Castor between the ears. "And it is quite logical to prevent two living beings from starving on your doorstep."

"Oh, I see," said Pella, smiling, "So you adopted them?

He tilted his head, thinking. "No, I believe that they adopted me."

"Cats will do that," said Tia, at last finding a dinner subject that she apparently approved of. "Sometimes even big, wild cats."

Then, looking exclusively at Kein, she launched into a story about a Starfleet hiking expedition and a very large California mountain lion. He had heard the story several times before, and from the look on his face, so had Kein. But it _was_ amusing, he supposed.

Pella leaned over, reaching out towards Castor.

"May I pet him?"

"Of course." He shifted to let her have access to the cat.

"What's his name?"

"Castor."

She stroked the cat's head, grinning when he rubbed back, softly purring. "The Greek god?" She glanced up at his shoulder, "And I suppose that is Pollux?"

"Indeed. You are most astute."

"Thank you. My mother made sure I learned basic Earth history and mythology as well as Yallsian."

"My mother did so as well."

"I figured." She sat back, pensive. "Lady Amanda and Ambassador Sarek are still almost as famous as they ever were - almost as famous as you are now." She blushed slightly. "Tia mentioned your name and I just couldn't wait to meet you."

He cocked his head. "That is gratifying. And yet, Kein did not know who I was. . ."

She giggled, "He wouldn't. The only famous people he pays any attention to are sports figures. Ask him the who the first Triple Crown winner is between the years 1997 and 2097 - "

"Miguel Cabrera, Detroit Tigers." Kein interrupted, making Pella laugh.

"Yes," she said, "But who won last year's Grammy for Best Album?"

His face went blank. "Uhhhhh. . . " Then he gave up, and turned his attention back to Tia, who had moved on to the latest exploits of the Dallas rugby team she had grown up admiring, and this, of course, he was interested in.

Pella laughed again, "He must be the only person in the galaxy who doesn't know a thing about Sal Vitteo."

Wondering for a moment if it amounted to bragging, he said, "I have met him."

Pella stared. " _The_ Sal Vitteo?"

"Is there another?"

"Wow, you're just full of surprises, aren't you? How'd you float that one?"

He had been among the students and their Earth-slang long enough now to understand what she was asking. "My father arranged a meeting between her family and ours, in an attempt to foster good relations with the Vorrann people."

"Ohhh - so this was a while back?"

"Yes. Before Vorra had entered the Federation, in fact."

"Wow. It was kind of a genius move to meet with a celebrity like that." She pushed her plate away, finished. "To do that kind of negotiation, I mean. I've found that most non-Human planets see joining the Federation as a sign that they have failed to make it on their own."

He paused before answering. "That is a fascinating point of view. . ."

She smiled a little. "My parents made First Contact with Yallsa ten years before I was born. I was nineteen when the planetary government signed a provisional agreement with the Federation. And if my parents hadn't actually been living there the whole time, the process would have been even slower." She shrugged, "Once a culture reaches the technological ability to achieve warp drive, it's pretty safe to assume they possess a strong independent spirit. It's a natural enough assumption, because, after all, they _have_ pushed to reach out towards the stars. Asking such a race to immediately join an infinitely larger community and incorporate all of _its_ social norms too? That's . . . well . . . a lot. A lot a lot, actually."

"You do not agree with the Federation's standard First Contact policy?" he asked, genuinely curious. Anyone who joined Starfleet but did not agree with the Prime Directive. . .

"I wouldn't say that," she said, carefully. "But I do think your dad bringing in an already established interplanetary star to help with the cultural integration was a master stroke."

"I must agree. After all, Sarek is a professional."

She half-grinned, "What did your father think of him?"

"Personally or professionally?"

"Um, both?"

"She helped greatly in aiding my father to properly direct the Vorrann acclimatization to the Federation standards for success. However. . ."

"Let me guess - he hated Sal's music? Most parents did at the time. Still do, for all I know. . ."

He began to gather the empty plates, Pollux and Castor jumping off of him as soon as he moved to stand. "Hate is too strong a word. Let us say my father "strongly disapproved" of Sal generally, and of his approach to the musical profession specifically."

Pella whistled softly, "So you're dad's an ambassador, but doesn't like the dual-gendered _or_ Jiknu Jazz? I take the genius comment back. How does he manage to work with anyone? Ever?"

He frowned slightly. "Vorrann biology had nothing to do with his opinion. It was the inherent emotionalism of the form and Sal's avant-garde approach to the medium that he objected to. There are few things that my father dislikes more than disorder. Music that consists primarily of random mathematical progressions infused with overt emotions is particularly distasteful to him."

Pella laughed, rising to help him clear the table. "How on _earth_ did he fall for your mother?"

"I have often wondered."

"Did _you_ like Sal? Or his music?"

He loaded the sonic dishwasher with the dishes as she handed them to him. "Personally, I found both enlightening in their own way. Sal is interesting as a person, and her music is. . . appealing to my necessary eclecticism."

She grunted, very softly. "If you'll pardon me for saying, your home life must have been sheer hell."

A small smile insistently tugged at his mouth. "I accept your apology, and I must remind you that we have just met - it is impossible for you to know how my formative years were spent."

She scratched the back of her head, thoughtfully. "Well, I do know that no one is ever famous for their parenting skills. Even when they _should_ be, no one ever is."

He closed the dishwasher, and leaned on the counter. "You are, indeed, most astute."

She smiled gently. "And I also know that growing up between cultures is never easy."

"I did not say it was." He allowed himself a small sigh.

Her smile turned sad, but she said no more, going back and sitting with the others.

He was relieved, but somehow, sincerely sorry that she had left.

He adroitly avoided Tia's offer of a game of Kalriss Rummy, instead going into his private rooms.

He needed to think.

* * *

"You do too much sitting and thinking, Doc," Tia said, knocking extremely briefly on his door and walking in on him while he meditated.

He rose without a word, and blew out his firepot.

" _What is necessary is always logical_ ," he quoted, turning to her. "Was there something. . . ?"

"Tea."

"Of course. " He had smelt it as soon as she had entered the room. He took the mug she held out to him. Sipped. It was good. One of the benefits of living with a friend - she had voluntarily learned exactly how he liked his tea. He nodded his thanks.

She was still standing in the middle of the room, her hands planted on her hips.

"Was there something else, Tia?"

She hesitated, her mood quite at odds with her posture. "You. . . you're nervous about something."

"I do not become nervous."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, maybe not, but you don't go and sit on that little beach unless there's something on your mind, and even Kein noticed your. . . well, I guess we'll be polite and call it your "dinner conversation"."

He was instantly confused. "I spoke when I was spoken to - is that not enough?"

She shook her head. "Normally it would be, yes. But I happen to know you well enough to know that _you have something on your mind, buster_." She shook a finger at him. "You going to let tía Tia help, or am I going to have to call your mother?"

He sighed a little. She was indeed capable of calling Amanda if she thought he should talk to his mother. Last month, during a similar confrontation, she had actually begun to dial his mother's comm. frequency.

Not for the first time, he regretted introducing them. It had been accidental; a consequence of her participation in the Academy's nighttime simulations, and his mother's insistence upon calling him after the traditional Terran dinner hour. That, and Amanda's wanting to "get to know" his friends.

He braced himself slightly. "Very well." He gestured her to the room's only chair, seating himself on the corner of the bed. "I am at the moment concerned about my Senior Year studies."

She laughed. "Oh, is that all? Well, just pick something then - you seem to be impossibly talented at everything - why is this even a question?"

"Because I have already taken all the courses that interest me personally. I do not wish to obtain a degree in a thing that does not interest me, but even less do I wish to be idle."

"Oh." She sobered at once, "And preparing for your Senior's Mission isn't enough? - wait, don't answer that - of course it isn't, or you wouldn't be asking the question."

"Precisely."

"Hmmm." She leaned her chin in her hand. "You're just so blame _good_ at everything. . . " A strange look came into her eyes. "Maybe that's it."

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "What is?"

"Take the instructor's qualification course. That way when you graduate, you'll be able to stay here and do something worthwhile while you wait for your posting."

He paused, thinking. "I had intended on taking a temporary posting upon one of the low-orbit station labs until the _Enterprise_ is activated."

Her eyes widened, "You've got the _Enterprise_? _**Already**_?" She gave a gusty sigh, "Of course, of course you do. I don't even know why I'm surprised."

"Captain Pike wishes me to be his first officer - "

"Of course he does."

"I apologize if this angers you."

Her look softened, "No, it's just. . . I guess I have a little bit of instinctive jealousy mixed with. . . well. . . _god_ you're just so _superior_ all the time." She did not say it bitterly, but she did look at him with a strange mixture of disgust and awe.

"Many of my physical and mental traits are superior to Human averages," he said, calmly. "But that does not make me any greater a person than anyone else."

She smiled, this time with undiluted affection. "I know. I'm just being Human."

"I am aware, Tia." He stood. "And your idea has merit. It would be practical and profitable for me to train to become an instructor. I will meditate upon the concept."

"Well, all right then." She stood up. "G'night."

"Good night, Miss Herrera."

The door closed behind her, cutting off her quiet laughter.

* * *

He opened the curtains of the huge glass door that dominated the wall opposite his bed. On moonless nights like tonight, he found that sleeping in starlight greatly refreshed him.

_Or rather, reflected artificial light from the city. . ._

He remembered an old Earth rhyme that his mother had attempted to translate into Vulcan.

_Pi'kil-tor, pi'kil-tor, khio'ri itsk,_

_Kah-ifainu, ra du ha'n,_

_Wuh'ashiv padann panu, ni'atsek,_

_Vah'kuv svi'igen,_

_Tra'se asal-masu-thek._

Such idioms were particularly true tonight, with many of the stars obscured by clumps of clouds lowering for rain. He opened the sliding door a few centimeters so that if it did rain, he could at least smell the dampness cooling the air of the new day.* Still, a good amount of the sky was visible. Automatically, his mind categorized which stars he was actually seeing. He had named four of the Terran constellations to himself when his eyes fell upon. . .

_Nevasa. . ._

It had been years, and still he felt a tug of homesickness.

_At least I admit the feeling. . ._

And now, Tia had given him a perfect excuse to stay away even longer. One of the advantages of a posting on a low-orbit station that he had not discussed with Tia was that the allotted leave time was close to double that of an active Starfleet officer. And it was nearly triple that of an instructor.

He had hoped. . .

He scarcely knew what he had hoped. To go home? To reconcile with Sarek? With T'Pring? To see Mount Seleya again? Such things were not hopes, exactly. But, at least, he _had_ hoped.

And now, that hope. . .

_Tia. . ._

Two terribly conflicting emotions welled in him - his obsessive adoration of Tia, and an instinctive disgust towards a person who takes away a dream. . . He suddenly felt out of himself; unreal.

He pressed a finger to his forehead, forcing himself to think.

He respected her. Greatly. But. . . it was such _work_ to love her.

 _No, it is a crush, not love. This cannot be_ _**love** _ _._

Could it?

No. No, not a chance. He sank into his _katra_ , looking closely at the emotion. It was still a different color than anything he had felt for anyone before. It was not lust, nor was it grasping affection. It was scarcely even attraction. He did not even wish to _touch_ her.

With a cold shock, he realized, finally, what was going on. _Why_ he saw her as perfect, _why_ he could not reconcile his feelings with reality. If she was on a pedestal, he _did not have to touch her_. It was only _this_ sort of static, sterile, at-arm's-length relationship that he could be certain would never spawn a katric bond. And thus, would never necessitate an explanation of _pon-farr_. . .

It was _not_ her inherent qualities that caused this feeling in him - it was _his_ desire to no longer be the cause of pain.

A flash of self-knowledge crackled across his consciousness. The feelings he had for her finally identified themselves, and suddenly they evaporated into an easily-controllable admiration. Tia was still his friend, and he still found her agreeable and worthy, but the obsession was gone. He could breathe again.

And he could forgive her. She had only been trying to help. She had not meant to decry his hopes. He smiled a little, too, over her solicitude.

_My friend. . ._

The tea had gone cold, but he drank it anyway.

A few minutes later, he settled into bed, Pollux draped over his neck like a living fur stole, and Castor in his preferred place curled up against his right hip. They began to purr. He allowed himself a shadow of a smile. His small friends were content.

Perhaps friendship was all he was capable of feeling - for anyone. Perhaps a friendship was the only kind of deep, permanent, non-familial relationship he could successfully navigate. Perhaps. . . he was never _meant_ to have a true mate.

He gently ran a finger between Castor's ears. The ball of gray fur uncoiled itself and mewled for a moment, then yawned and went back to sleep.

_Perhaps my mind is fated to spend its life alone._

If that was the case, then friends would have to be enough. He would _make_ it be enough. . . but. . .

But. . .

He lay awake for a long time.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_**Pi'kil-tor, pi'kil-tor, khio'ri itsk**_ \- Sparkle, sparkle, small star.

 _ **Kah-ifainu, ra du ha'n**_ \- It is known what you are.

 _ **Wuh'ashiv padann panu, ni'atsek**_ \- Another spinning world, so big.

 _ **Vah'kuv svi'igen**_ \- As if in the sky

 _ **Tra'se asal-masu-thek.**_ \- There is a dewdrop.

 ***Cultural Note** \- A Vulcan day is measured from sunset to sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about Castor and Pollux, please read the side story "Successfully Inducing The Orderly Congregation Of Multiple Felis Catus Of The Family Felidae Of The Order Carnivora". It is the second entry in my series "Land Where They May", found here - http://archiveofourown.org/series/229625


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Warning** \- Strong T rating, for angst and adult themes. Mild spoilers for TOS episode; Amok Time, and major spoilers for TNG episode; Gambit.

* * *

_"Intermittent peace is not balance - it is turmoil."_

_\- Analect of Surak_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

T'Pring closed the door of her little house behind her. She stood on the wide, shaded porch and breathed in the heavy, boiling air of the Kha'Planth community. As a sub-urban development of Shi'Kahr, it was in range of only a few of the environmental regulating satellites which made the capital city acceptable for tourists and other foreigners. Again she breathed in the earthen scents of sun-baked stone and dust burnt clean by the heat. She decided she liked the air here, despite its thudding dry weight upon her lungs. It was, at least, an acceptable contrast to the airy, cold and empty bite she felt every time she touched the bond with Spock . . .

She gathered up her shopping basket and draped her veil across her face. Leisurely, she began to walk towards the local market.

A word floated through her mind, then stuck, refusing to leave.

_Finally._

Strange, that such a word should be in her mind at such a time. _Finally_. . . what?

She had moved out of her father's house five months ago. The small bungalow she had occupied since was the product of her award-winning redesign of the exhaust filter-retort module for _Vekt'or_ Hovercrafts. The Vulcan company had asked the engineering laboratory she worked for to design a module that would give a 20% reduction in waste particulate pass-through and a 15% increase in efficiency. _Vekt'or_ were famous galaxy-wide for their excellence - only the best submission would be accepted. She had given them 30% particulate reduction and 17% efficiency increase, as well as improving the toxic fume regulator by at least 12%. Her design would appear in this year's V950 model hoverbike, and the K1200 model emergency-response vehicle.

 _Vekt'or_ had paid her, not in credits, which she did not need, but in _land_.

As a member of a High Clan, and a direct heir to the headship of that clan, her personal rights to own land were severely limited. Until she inherited her position, she could not buy arable, productive or habitable land beyond what her clan already owned. Nor could she become the land-lord of any area not exclusively inhabited by members of her clan other than herself. She _could_ rent lodgings for herself, but she could not make a profit from any such acquisition. If she rented such a place, even an herb garden would be public property; it would be illegal to wall it off, leaving it subject to any wandering child who wished for a _hirat_ snack. Indeed, the entirety of such a rented lot could be taken from her, without explanation or prior notice, if it ever became necessary for someone else to use the property.

There were always rooms to be had in the city high-rises, of course, but she did not want one of the featureless sort of impersonal apartments that urban Shi'Kahr invariably offered - she wanted someplace where she could be herself sometimes. Someplace that was sure, and permanent, and away from all of her failed past lives. Someplace she could _own_. But she could not even make a private deal for the ownership of land, not without concealing her identity - which was also illegal.

Naturally, she could live upon any of her family's lands, and she could, of course, marry into possession of property, but both of those options were beyond her at the moment. Practically the only legal way for her to become independent of her Clan house - a thing which she was increasingly desperate to be - was for a publicly-owned piece of property to be _gifted_ to her, by a non-private entity, for non-profit purposes. Which was exactly what _Vekt'or_ had done. And it was excellent land too, sheltered, fertile, clean, and ideally placed. She had no idea why such a company would keep such a piece of land as nothing but an antigrav-coil testing area, but she refused to be curious in this instance. She promptly built a small house upon one corner of it, and used the rest of the one-fourth _mat'dreh-vla_ lot as a walled-in vegetable garden with plenty of space for an outdoor exercise/meditation area. She had hired a gardener, and a maid to clean the house twice a week. Otherwise, she was, at last, blissfully alone.

That had all been done five months ago. She was more content now than she had ever been.

Surely _then_ was the time to have felt a "finally" sort of feeling? _Hadn't_ she felt thus? So why was she feeling thus again?

She spoke to her father twice a week. Her mother called once a month. She had perfectly serviceable work and she was content with her acquaintanceships. She bought fresh-grown food from the local market and had at least two real-food meals a day. Her last Time. . .

Surely, _surely_ that last Time would have been the point to say "finally". . .

Madness had come closer to her than it had been ever since her first Time. She had fallen into the usual deadly sleep, and instantly began to pour her wild, lustful intent into the bond, trying to tear it, and him, into shreds. But, for the first time, she was blocked from true contact. Her frustrated passions began to double and redouble themselves, bruising her mind against his, driving her consciousness deeper into her own _katra_ , where they would destroy her. But even this did not seem to move him now. For quite a while she had noticed he was growing beyond her power to hurt, and that Time had been worse, far worse. She could only reach the surface of his sub-conscious _i'ki_ , and then only while he was also asleep.

One dream only did she remember from that Time. She had been standing in a _koon-ut_ , dressed in a silver wedding-shift, the _kusekitsk_ rolling their sharp, thin sound through the heavy air. Two male bodies fought before her, stripped to the waist, covered in dust, their green blood splashing from the myriad of gashes upon each of them.

One of the warriors struggled to an advantageous position, lifted his weapon. . . and before he delivered the killing blow, raised his eyes to meet hers.

It was Spock. Of course.

In his glance there was desperation, and hate, and a dark coiling of anger, directed not at his opponent, but at _her_.

 _She_ had forced this upon him. This cruel, blatant, wanton murder.

His blade fell, and his opponent's head was separated from his body.

The desperate look in Spock's eyes turned to disgust. For himself. For her. For the blood he had spilled. For the death that was on _her_ hands.

She had looked back defiantly, trying to communicate with her eyes all she wanted to say.

_I don't want you. I want you to suffer. As I have done._

Her frustrated subconscious had taken control at that point, forcing all of the dreams to be more explicit, more vicious, more gory and destructive than they ever had been before. Whatever insanity there was in herself, she embraced it. She remembered little more of that horrible Time, only flashes, only heat lightening from the whirlwind of those dreams. It was madness, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

But it had never reached him. She did not think he had even noticed it. The wall of his mind absorbed her Time, then reflected her self back upon herself.

When she had finally awoken, she wept, like a small child left alone in the desert, bereft of any family members.

She was cut off, repulsed, abandoned, almost completely left to her own devices even during her most vulnerable times, forced to the very end of endurance and decency.

Very well.

So should _he_ be, when his Time came.

 _**If** _ _it comes. . ._

She had decided then, finally, to exercise the freedom he had given her, and look for a choice-mate. It was time for her to be free. It would be time even if _hadn't_ given her permission. Long past time. Far better to be shed of this vicious cycle.

Later that week, she had contacted Stonn.

Two weeks after that, finally, _finally_ they had met again. With a sly, half-invisible smile Stonn asked what had taken her so long. She did not answer. Then he took her to the Vulcan Museum Of Antiquities, so she might see his workplace, and his projects.

The next week, they had met in the marketplace - the very marketplace she was headed towards now, in fact. She had bought some vegetables especially for a meal he had mentioned he enjoyed. He had bought a ridiculous Tellarite hoodscarf of brilliant yellow-green with blue and pink spangles sewed all over it. Even the Tellerite shopkeeper asked him what he could be thinking. He did not answer, except that he proceeded to _wear_ it - for the entire rest of the day. He drew more than one odd look from Vulcans, not to mention at least two dozen smiles or giggles from the offworlders who frequented the marketplace.

She never told him, but she also had a very distinct desire to laugh.

No one had _ever_ induced such a reaction in her before.

_It was intensely fascinating. . ._

After that, they talked over the comm., nearly every day. He asked questions about her past, and her clan. He listened as she talked about her childhood in Gol. He encouraged her when she spoke of her abrupt and nearly disastrous decision to join her father's clan. He was empathetic when she explained her mental disability. He uttered no word of judgement when she spoke of her troubles with Spock. Practically the only thing she never told him was about her _plak-tauw_ , but she had the distinct impression he would have listened to that too.

For the first time, she felt she had a voice.

They continued to meet, regularly now, three times a week. He often would come to her house and cook for her; new meals of a kind she had only heard about. He told her he was fascinated by Human cuisine. She admitted to knowing extremely little about it. For the sweet course he would bring Terran fruits of shapes and flavors so odd she had never even imagined them. Cranberries, cherimoya, lychee, and mangoes. For the bitter or sour courses he made salads from strange Terran vegetables like lettuce or chard - almost impossibly leafy things that came in so many varieties and colors they never ceased to mystify her.

He would research a Terran place, and then acquire food from that area, telling her what he had learned while they ate it. They tasted goat's milk yoghurt from Egypt, yak milk cheese from the Himalayas, and strawberry gelato from Italy. They learned the myriad of things that can be made with soybeans. He introduced her to a liquor called a "single malt". They learned words like wasabi, gooseberry, quinoa, cashew, apple and stevia - outlandish words that were almost as satisfying to say as they were to taste.

Even more than that, he actually replicated exotic Terran meats for her to try; things like turkey bacon, giraffe steak, cured salmon roe and grilled swordfish fillet, pheasant-liver pâté, and reindeer hotdogs. Each tasted strange, oily, dark and forbidden.

So far, she had loved everything they tried. Not that she _told_ him that. . .

He met her once at her lab. Her co-workers had displayed complete indifference towards him, and her superior only showed a tiny flash of annoyance when he had been introduced. But such an emotion could be easily explained by her not wishing to lose one of her best engineers to marriage. After she learned that Stonn lived in Shi'Kahr, and that he highly approved of T'Pring's career, she thawed markedly, even giving them her highest accolade as they left - "Good day, T'Pring, Stonn." And she had nodded at them.

Remarkable, for a woman who rarely said anything to any of her employees, scarcely even seeming to notice them unless they made an error. And she _never_ called visitors by name.

That day, Stonn had taken her into the city, and showed her the famous Shi'Kahr bio-domes - huge installations which held living dioramas of flora and fauna from a hundred different worlds. Despite living within forty kilometers of the site for most of a decade, she had never been there before. They walked among gardens that came from far-off Acanda, from nearby Terra, from vicious Fallmak, and from temperate Kall. He led her through the bright and blisteringly cold ice-algae field of the Andorian exhibit, and she had led the way though the dim, lightly humid dome of the Ele-kmar fungus cave. Both exhibits glowed with a deep, beautiful blue. The Terran exhibit was mostly rich browns, soft greens, leafy plants, and insects inexplicably called "butterflies". She had hated the Betazoid exhibit, with its intense, dripping humidity, painfully fluorescent purple vegetation, and loudly telepathic birds. Her favorite had been the JO'laNn exhibit - tall bluffs of dark blue-gray rock, with hardy tufts of pale mossy green clinging sparsely to them.

They scarcely spoke for looking at all the wonders.

That night, they dined at _Hesh'va_ , the new, controversial, and highly expensive Orion restaurant. She only barely managed to find a meal that did not include chocolate, and she entirely failed to avoid cinnamon. The Orions were savvy enough businessmen to avoid any sort of meat dishes, but to make up for that, they offered an abundance of intoxicating ones. Stonn said nothing about it. He chose his own meal with care, but then completely threw caution into the fire over his dessert.

She supposed the slice of Terran style Black Forest cake got away with being on an Orion menu because it was made with _m'isjn_ \- Orion cherry liquor. . .

Not since she was an infant had anyone dared to spoon-feed her. . . but on that night, with him, and that particular confection. . . she felt inclined to forgive him the liberty.

That had been nearly a month ago. And still, here was this _finally_ feeling. . .

She put the word from her mind for the moment; she had reached the market, and now had other things to think about.

She walked slowly, easily along the aisles of stalls, though there was a good crowd out today. The air was hot, but the wind was clear - there were no dust storms forecast for several days. Practically every market farmer was present with his wares. Young mothers, school-age children, studious young men, serious young women, slightly older workers of all genders, and a good cross section of foreigners made up the majority of the patrons. Old men played _kal-toh_ in the shade, while their wives and sons or daughters managed the market stalls. The whole place was quiet, anonymous, but welcoming, and accepting. She felt none of her fear of crowds.

She approached one of the stalls that was offering locally grown produce. She was growing her own _ackh'am_ root, and so had need of some _f'endain_ spice to cook with it. She asked the young woman behind the counter for four grams. It was a lot, but she was fond of stewed _ackh'am_. The proprietor wrapped the slim strips of dried bark in a sheet of crisp brown paper. She thanked her and moved on the the next booth. It was the season for fresh _banraikh_ , but the trees she was growing were not yet old enough to fruit. This booth had very reasonably priced boxes of them already peeled and stoned _._ She bought a half-kilo boxfull, then moved over to the next aisle of stalls. This latitude was very bad for _po'kera_ \- no one grew it locally - but here were eight whole stalls taken up with different imported varieties. She chose one with an orange-red skin and very dark green leaves striped with white. When she put it into her basket, it made a pleasing contrast to the pale lavender of the _banraikh_ and the dull brown of the _f'endain_ 's wrapping paper. The aesthetic pleased her, for some reason. . . Then she looked up, walking slowly down the long aisle of stalls devoted to bread. She purchased some sweet _kreyla_ , and some _lim-tineh_ so fresh they were still warm from the cooking stone.

Now she needed tea. Last week she had leaned that Stonn preferred _Khray'tus_ style tea to her spicier _Noh'bon_ blend; she would get some for him.

Beyond the tea-seller was a tiny booth packed entirely full of hand-made herbal remedies, skin-care products, and candies. She bought a packet of _hol-mor'e_ lozenges. She did not need them, but they tasted of Gol - rugged, lonely, windswept, and free.

She couldn't resist.

She did not enter the aisles that sold handmade clothing, and she skipped the one that displayed the offworld products - she held back even her curiosity. She would learn whatever she wished to know of offworld goods _with_ Stonn, not without him. Even if he did have hideous taste in head-coverings. She suppressed a smile.

Beyond that there was only the tea-tent - a dark, cool refuge after the brilliant heat and bustle of the market.

She did not often go to the tea-tent, but today she was not yet ready to return home. She had awakened with this unexplainable "finally" feeling, and her morning's work at the lab had not been particularly interesting - certainly not enough to effectively distract her from it. "Finally" had been on her mind for hours. . .

She decided she _needed_ some distraction.

" _Amsetri tre, t'sai_ ," said a young woman server as soon as T'Pring entered the tent, "May I offer refreshment?"

She nodded, gratefully setting down her purchases. She ordered a chilled _khy'yekuhl_ and a plate of mild _vash g'ralth_ with plain _kreyla_. The server went to fulfill her order, leaving T'Pring alone to look about herself.

The tent was of the traditional odd shape that allowed the air to circulate within the enclosure, cooling it, and the residents. The floor was smooth, hard-packed clay. There were no windows, and only two small hanging _ith'duasenara_ lit the whole big room. The tables and chairs were of light plastic. Both were foldable. Nothing felt flimsy, but it did feel. . . transient. A tent, by it's very nature, was temporary. . .

There was no permanence to this room - no surety, no _reality_.

A figure approached her. From the corner of her eye, she assumed it was the server returning with her meal, but instead, a far more familiar person sat down across from her.

It was Stonn.

It was also _Shehkuh'ukgad_. They were not scheduled to meet until the beginning of next week. Why was he here?

He did not speak until her server had delivered her food.

She did not eat. She was too confused.

"Greetings, Stonn," she said, hoping none of her tumultuous emotions came though in her voice. "I trust that all is well with you?"

_Finally. . ._

_Ah._ Suddenly she felt intense relief. _That_ was why the word "finally" was stuck in her mind. Finally she was _ready_. Ready to do something she had never done while in his company.

Ask _him_ a question.

He inclined his head, suppressing a smile.

"Indeed."

"You are not often in this marketplace on this day."

He repeated the gesture.

"Indeed not."

"May I assume you are here for a specific purpose then?"

"Indeed you may." His characteristic slight smirk appeared on his face.

"Will you tell me, or must I ask?"

He looked down at her plate. "You are hungry. Please, eat first - what I have to say will keep until you finish."

She shook her head slightly. "I am not hungry. I only wished for an occupation."

He met her eyes. "Eating when you are not hungry, T'Pring? Such illogic. . ."

She felt a flush come up on her ears and hands. She was unable to answer.

He leaned forward and whispered, "There is hope for you yet."

She held back a start, then frowned, ever so slightly.

_What on Vulcan does he mean. . . ?_

"I am here to steal you away, T'Pring," he said, still whispering, "To a very special historical excavation site - there are few experts who wouldn't give a decade of their lives to know about what we may discover there - it is that important. I want you to come and see it."

Her frown deepened. He had taken her to see several of the sites he worked on, but such trips had always been scheduled well in advance. "Now? Today?"

"Now." He nodded. "Today."

"It cannot wait?"

_What is this urgency?_

He shook his head. "It is not that. _I_ cannot wait. I daresay the site can."

She scooped up some _vash g'ralth_ with one of the thin biscuits and ate it. No sense in wasting it. With a gesture, Stonn asked if he might share the plateful with her. She nodded.

"How did you know I would be here?"

He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. "You come to the market nearly every day. It was logical to - "

"No, I mean _here_." She gestured at the room. "I seldom come to the tea tent. Why did you look here?"

"It was the best place to look." He took a bite of _vash g'ralth_. Somehow she knew that would be all the answer she would get on the matter.

He chewed absently for a minute, then said quietly, "Will you come with me today?"

His eyes were cast down at the table, and his voice was quite subdued, not at all his usual high assurance.

She considered. "It is. . . important to you?"

"It is."

"And it is important that _I_ see this place?"

He looked her in the eyes, an odd expression on his face. "It is important to _me_ that you do. . . yes. It is."

She stood, and picked up her basket.

"Then, I shall certainly come."

* * *

During the walk to the shuttlepad, all was very quiet between them. Even when they reached his vehicle they said nothing. He opened the rear access port to a _Vekt'or_ J680 long-range shuttlepod and let her settle her basket and herself comfortably into the back. Then he sealed the airlock and slipped into the pilot seat.

It was a very small shuttle, but he had managed to pack a good deal of his life into it. She saw three toolcases crammed under the seat opposite her. Cases of bottled water and boxes of cheap survival rations vied for space with her shopping basket. A headlamp and hardhelmet hung from the wall. He clearly lived far below his means - there was not a hint of the High Clan son about most of these belongings. And yet. . . a long string of tiny stone Dowry beads hung from the ceiling. They were an ancient-looking disc-shaped set, muddy-red and ugly, unimportant almost certainly, but still. . . they were most likely worth the price of three of these shuttles, at the least. And here they were, unlabeled, unprotected, coiled in short loops around a ceiling hook. Probably the rarest find he was likely to have ever come across, and not only had he been allowed to keep them, he treated them in such a manner? Only a High Clan son could have been considered for such an honor as to be presented with an historical find of that magnitude, and only the most entitled of princelings would have used such rare objects so cavalierly. Juxtaposed to this, there were several small canvas bags of plain and very rumpled clothing haphazardly piled in the overhead compartment. Sand and crumbs and fragments of ration-bar wrappers littered the floor. The floor of this _long-range_ shuttle.

What exactly _was_ he? A High Clan son? An archeologist and independent working man? Or some mix of both - or something else entirely? His belongings seemed to indicate all of these things, and yet none of them. . .

If she had not been confused before, she certainly was now.

He commed for liftoff permission from the Shi'Kahr Airspace Tower. They were cruising speedily through the high atmosphere before she spoke.

"I thought you lived in a small apartment in Shi'Kahr?" She knew he did - it was one of the few personal facts he had unhesitatingly volunteered about himself.

He double-checked their trajectory before locking on the autopilot. "I do. Why do you ask?"

It _was_ odd to be asking him questions. When he had taken her places before, she had never even asked where they were going.

"You possess a long-range shuttle. You live and work mainly in Shi'Kahr. Why do you need it?"

"My work takes me to many places other than the city. . ."

"But would not the museum provide you with transport to those places? And even a trip to the T'Ralor Preserve would not necessitate a warp-capable shuttle."

"They do provide me with transport." He gestured indicatively around them at the shuttle. "And just last month I went to T'Khut and aided with an excavation of ice strata on T'Rukhemai."

She shook her head. "If this were an employer-issued vehicle, it would be larger." Every time he had taken her someplace before, it had been in a lumbering old Ls7200 open-top cargo hauler she could well believe he used for work. "There is scarcely room for your basic tools in this shuttle, and none at all for your larger equipment, packing crates, environmental/survival gear. . ."

He turned the pilot seat around and looked at her. "That does not mean this is my personal vehicle."

"Yes it does." She pointed to the compartment over the seat opposite hers. "You would not carry about your dirty laundry in a shuttle owned by your employer."

His lip twisted. "And if it is my personal vehicle?"

"Then you have not told the whole truth regarding your living arrangements."

He turned back to the controls, turning off the autopilot and beginning the descent sequence. "Is this a roundabout way of attempting to induce me to prematurely reveal where we are going?"

"No. It is an attempt to get - " She stopped. She had very nearly said "to get to know you". . . "To get at the truth," she finished, quickly.

A smile quirked onto his face. " _The truth is always both simple and complex_."

It was the first time he had ever quoted Surak to her.

"That does not answer the question, Stonn."

"I do not know what you are asking."

The shuttle began to vibrate slightly as high-atmospheric winds buffeted them.

"Do you, in fact, live in Shi'Kahr?"

His hands moved deftly over the controls, cutting their speed and engaging the anti-grav engine. "Yes," he said, calmly. "Very often, I do."

She crossed her arms. "And that is only half of an answer. . ."

He actually chuckled out loud. "Well then, you will _see_ the rest of the answer when we get where we are going." He sobered and looked at her seriously, "I promise, T'Pring."

It was also the first time he had ever promised her anything. The shock momentarily distracted her from his emotional display.

The shuttle dipped through the wispy layer of high clouds, hovered briefly, then descended carefully through a lower, thicker layer of mist. Stonn began to set up their landing sequence. T'Pring leaned forward to look through the viewscreen. She very nearly gasped in surprise. They were in the Mountains of Gol. She could actually see Mt. Seleya off in the middle-distance.

"What are we doing here, Stonn?" Her voice was so expressionless it sounded almost dangerous.

"You will see."

They landed, exited the shuttle, and he led her through the maze of rocks until they were looking into the cool, wide mouth of a lava tunnel. He handed her a lantern.

As she took it, she looked about herself. The patterns of the stones seemed. . . important, somehow, if not almost familiar. . . Hadn't she seen Mt. Seleya from this exact angle through the mists once before?

She looked sharply at him. "This. . . this is. . ."

"Yes." A tiny smile softened his features. "That day, it was as though Buko'n himself was sending you to me. . ."

He took a long step into the cave. She could not help but follow.

"Why are we. . .?"

"Patience, my Treasure."

She bridled at the sudden nickname. "No. I will not. Stonn, you will tell me why we are here, or I will go no further."

"You do not trust me?"

His face looked sepulchral in the mingled half-daylight and lantern's glow.

"No."

"I promised you, T'Pring." He reached over and snapped on her lantern. "I will not renege."

She clenched her jaw, and her free hand into a fist. "You will tell me why we are in the cave where we first met."

"No."

She turned to leave.

" _Sanuu, ko-fu't Tahs'sus_."

His voice sounded desperate. Almost broken. She turned and looked into his eyes. The confidence and good humor she normally saw there were entirely gone, replaced by. . . she had no words for what was in his expression. He had spoken in Old Golsu, and indeed, only one of the ancient dialects would have the words to explain what was in his eyes. But she did not know those words - not in any language. She did not answer him.

" _Kaah-if t'yaulu'hhk nash-veh'tor_."

His words held an earnestness they did not usually possess.

" _ **Du**_ _of't yaulu'hhk. . ._ "

His emphasis was completely illogical.

She hesitated before asking, in the same dialect, " _Nash-veh'torr_?"

" _Ha'_ _ **a**_."

"Then why have you brought me _here,_ Stonn?" She asked in Standard, letting a good deal of her confusion and. . . yes, it was _fear_. . . color the words. "To a place where I was both shamed and _hurt_? Can you wonder at my hesitance?"

He lifted an arm as if to touch her, then thought better of it, and straightened to his full height. "It is. . . a coincidence," he whispered fiercely. "T'Pring, I swear it. It was Fate that brought you here that day. Nothing more."

"You refuse to tell me why we are here now?"

"I want to _show_ you."

She forced herself to relax. He was no fool.

And neither was she. . .

"Can you promise me that the reason has anything at all to do with an archaeological excavation?"

He did not fight his relieved smile. "Indubitably."

It was a long walk down to the Burial Cave she remembered so well.

When the walls at last widened into the Burial Room itself, he slowed his long, swift stride, sweeping his lantern's beam across the floor most meticulously. Twice he redirected their steps to prevent them from falling into an excavation pit.

"Three more _Ahkh'haile_ graves have been discovered since you were last here," he said, in an offhand manner that she did not find reassuring.

She was disconcerted, confused, still unsure of the intentions of her guide, and off-kilter from being within this cavernous tomb again. She hated death, and all things to do with burial, but most of all, she hated the lost feeling of being in the dark with no walls about her. It was the same kind of empty chill she felt from the bond with Spock. . .

She made him no reply.

As he led her down the wide sweeping curve of the room, she remembered something. . . and began looking at the floor with her own lantern's light. Sure enough - there it was. A swept pathway - innocuous, almost invisible, no more than a subtle track of disturbed dust. But it led down deep into the farthest reaches of the cave. And they were walking along it, towards. . . what?

What _was_ it he was trying to conceal? Or, was it perhaps. . . many things. . . ?

Finally the walls narrowed again, but this time into a myriad of tangled tunnels. Stonn led the way unerringly through four or five turns and twists that would have been utterly confusing to her had she not possessed an eidetic memory. Then they stopped. They had to do so. He had apparently led them down a blind path, for nothing but stone lay in front of them. He turned to her, speaking quietly.

"I am about to place all my trust in you, T'Pring. . ."

He gave her an incomprehensible look and then leaned very precisely on the rough stone wall.

It rolled back, without a sound.

She squinted and staggered back a step, for beyond the wall was a broad _spathel_ , the sun streaming in and glancing brilliantly off the hot red stones. Her eyes adjusted swiftly, and then she could look down into the canyon. It dipped, and turned, and split, first to one side, then another, making a maze of quite immeasurable proportions all across this section of the Seleya Plain.

She looked at him, wonder in her eyes. "A secret entrance to the _Vis'pa-rish Seleya_."

Only one small section of the ancient maze was used anymore, and then only rarely. Furthermore, that area was away off to the north, much closer to the Mountain.

He switched off their lanterns. "Indeed. From here on we follow the Path of Savar."

She blinked, then held back a smile. He had made a joke. Savar, the uncertain god of wandering, was also associated with problem solving, and hence, the certainty of destinations. The Path of Savar meant both questions and answers. Here they stood at the beginning of a maze, but the door _itself_ was the destination. Stonn had found an ancient hidden doorway and turned it into a way to amuse her. She was relieved and enchanted enough to make a jest of her own.

"Truly?" she said, mimicking the wry twist he often put on his words, "It was my thought that the god involved was Buko'n, not Savar."

He smiled thinly at her. "Well. . . they were half-brothers - and friends. . . until. . ." His voice trailed off.

"Until Khosarr came between them," she continued, relishing the irony, "and they made their final battle at the Isle of - "

"There is a more appropriate time and place for this story, I believe," he interrupted, seemingly put out over the simple legend.

"But, Stonn - it is common knowledge. Every school-child knows of the ancient war between Destiny and Uncertainty. . ."

"Not now, T'Pring." He half-reached for her again. "I cannot explain just now, but. . . please. . ." He gestured awkwardly at the maze of canyons, taking a few shuffled steps forward, as if he wished to begin the journey into them. "Now that our eyes have adjusted, we must. . ."

She frowned slightly at his artlessness.

"Stonn? We have arrived here." She gestured at the doorway. "You have shown me an excellent find, and given me a fine amusement. To venture into the maze is surely unnecessary?"

An incredible tangle of emotions appeared on his face.

"I. . . no. . . it. . . T'Pring, you have misunderstood. . ." He stopped, and centered himself. "The door is not the find I wished to show you, though it _is_ notable. The site is but a few minutes walk from here, down that channel," he pointed to a bend in the canyon a few dozen meters away.

"You have mapped the _spathel_ , then?"

It still felt odd to be asking him questions, but he only nodded.

"Yes, I have."

"The Museum must be highly satisfied with such a site - a functional ancient door to the farthest reaches of the Lost Maze, _and_ artifacts beyond. It is quite noteworthy."

"I. . . have not told them of it."

"Yet?"

"No. Not yet."

Which really was no answer at all, she realized. She was so very confused. There was so much. . . so much to ask him, so many explanations she needed just now, but it seemed they were only capable of having half a conversation.

A baffled silence lay between them as he led her through the bewildering set of turns and twists the canyon took. They did not go very far, and he did know every turning perfectly, but still his posture was odd. Odd and. . . strange. . . like even the parts of him she could see were somehow walled away. She lagged three or four meters behind, trying to control her emotional reactions.

_Always, this concealment. . ._

Ahead of her, he slipped into a side-passage, and disappeared.

She ran to the short passage, looking down it, by now confused almost to the point of hysteria. He had not just disappeared, he was _gone_. He seemed to have vanished straight into the sky. The walls were too high here for even a Vulcan to jump. It was too sheer to climb, and too wide to chimney-climb. There were no wall niches, no large pits in the floor, no columns to hide behind. . .

An arm extended out of seemingly solid rock and beckoned to her.

She very nearly screamed.

Then Stonn's head followed, his foolish half-smile in place on his mouth.

"This is also a fascinating doorway, is it not?"

She quickly strode down the passage, and looked sternly at the narrow, recessed crack in the wall. It was narrow enough and angled just so that it was invisible from passage's entrance. She looked reproachfully at him.

"How _did_ you know to find me in the tea tent?"

A small crease formed between his brows. "What has that to do with this?"

"Everything," she said, planting her feet firmly. "Cease prevaricating, Stonn. You will begin answering my questions, or I will return to the shuttle."

His mouth twitched. "Very well. You deserve to know anyway." He gestured her through the hidden doorway and into a short arched tunnel. "You remember the day we met, of course."

"Of course." How could she forget?

"Do you also remember that I briefly touched your injuries - to assess their severity, of course, and to aid in their healing?"

Her mind flew back to that cool-warm touch, the first indication of his finely-tuned confidence. They scrambled through a wide tumbled area choked with boulders. He reached out a hand to help her through, but she did not take it.

"Of course I remember."

"I left a low-level medical bond with you then," he said, leading them back into the smoothly curving passages. "When we are close by each other, I can sense your general presence and state of health through it." He paused, then said, reassuringly, "It only communicates a little more than what your _katra_ naturally projects, but it _is_ more."

Her heart sped with several odd emotions, one of which she was sure was _anger_.

"A medical bond is supposed to be terminated once it is no longer needed."

"I am not convinced you do not still need it. Here we are."

They rounded one last turn, and found themselves in a large, irregularly bowl-shaped portion of the canyon-maze. The way they had entered was the only entrance to it - it was a dead end where the maze was concerned - but. . . oh. . . _what_ a dead-end. This part of the maze was far enough away from the Mists of Seleya for the sun to beat its wavering rays on the steaming rock. The stone here was cream-white limestone veined with a muddy pink that still managed to glitter in such relentless heat. The high walls were widely sloped enough that there was little shade anywhere - save inside each of the long row of deeply carved wall-niches that nearly ran the entire circumference of the bowl.

"A Pantheon," she breathed.

"Indeed," he said, solemnly.

She spun, looking intently at the intricately crafted arches all around her, "There must be nearly a hundred. . ."

"There are one-hundred and five."

She stopped and stared at him. Everyone knew that in the final stages of the Vulcan pre-reform era there had been one-hundred and five officially recognized gods and goddesses. It was the most tumultuous and least well-documented time in their history, but everyone knew that part of it, at least. To have found a Pantheon from that period - more, a _complete_ Pantheon. . .

"You _have not told your superiors of this find_?" she asked, incredulous.

"No."

"Why not?"

He smiled his half-smile and pointed to the far side of the bowl. "I will show you."

The arched niches only became more remarkable the closer she observed them. Even the best ones were slightly tumbled and wind-worn, of course, and many were sand-scarred, but the relatively protected back surface of each was delicately figured with a bas-relief image of the god or goddess to which it was dedicated. There were still traces of pigments on most of the figures, and though most also had a few cracks and chunks of limestone missing, she could not see a single one that was totally illegible or completely ruined. Most of the sweeping inscriptions above the arches were clearly visible. She could read a dozen - two dozen maybe - names and devotional phrases quite easily as they approached the south side of the bowl. She saw Akraana and Kharh, and glimpsed Ny'one. Nearly all of the niches had remnants of carved stone votives in the devotional space. There were even small, shallow firepits scooped randomly across the floor, some with what looked like coal-ash still in them. _Perfect_ for carbon dating.

It was not just a complete, beautiful, and rare Pantheon; it was also positively saturated with artifacts and information.

 _A_ _**most** _ _remarkable find._

In fact, this place had the potential to be _the_ most remarkable find of their generation. He was right. Practically _any_ professional archaeologist would trade a tenured position with a university solely dedicated to lavishing grant money upon them for the opportunity to work with such a location.

 _So why_. . .

It had become apparent that he was leading them to the shine dedicated to Reah. A small permaplast crate was sitting inside her niche, instead of the piles of stone votives present within the other shrines, which Stonn had obviously organized, but had not particularly protected.

Reah's inscription was one of the best preserved. As they approached, T'Pring almost read the signature cantrip aloud, but managed to hold herself back.

Stonn looked at her with an expression she did not even try to decipher. But he said nothing, and slowly opened the paneled box.

With infinite care, he removed a solid crescent of _kah'hir_ , banded about with beautifully patinated copper. The rock was carved into an arc about seven-eighths of a circle, and about a double handspan in width. It was a thumb's thickness at its narrowest, smoothly tapered down from a heavy four centimeters in the middle. The copper bands were engraved with the oldest known runic script of Gol. He handed it to her. She balanced it carefully on both her palms. A strange tingling traveled up her fingers and arms. Suddenly she was intensely aware of every rock that surrounded her, and every rift, every flake, every pebble, every speck of dust. Stonn was twice as _alive_ as he had been but a moment ago. She was twice as much her self. Even the sunlight had a personality. She had never felt such _power_.

Her brain reeled with questions.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"It is the _ashenayek_ of the Gollic Resonator."

In her surprise, she almost dropped it.

"You. . . are. . ." she gasped, "You have found. . ." She looked in shock at the thing she held. "This is the Weapon of Gol?"

"No," he smiled again. "It is only a part of it." He gestured at Reah's niche. "But its discovery makes the search for further elements possible."

She found she could barely form words. "You are. . . _searching_. . . for the _Stone of Gol_?"

"No, we are searching for the remainder of the device - we already have the Stone. Or what is left of it. . ." He shook his head, lightly, as though he were speaking of his ordinary business.

She remembered now. . . During his tour of the Museum, he had shown her the only remaining fragment of the Gol crystal. It was only one of many things he had shown her, and she had nearly forgotten it. Forgivable, she supposed.

 _Because no one could_ _**possibly** _ _think of. . ._

"It is unlikely that we will find more pieces of the resonator device here," he continued. "But, we may find out where they were sent."

"You cannot be thinking. . ."

Her mind was quite understandably staggered. Despite the heat, she shivered, then handed the artifact back to him. The world mercifully shrank back into manageable size.

"You _cannot_. . ."

"Why not? It is the most obscured portion of our history."

She suppressed another fearful shudder. "It was also the most bloody."

"And what of that? Nearly every intelligent race has such unfortunate occurrences in their history - does this mean they should not be studied?"

He placed the stone crescent carefully back into its protective niche.

"But not every race is able to kill with a thought." She looked at the round thing in its box. It seemed so innocuous to be part of such a deadly weapon. . . But she could well understand the desire for that power she had felt from it.

"Is. . . study. . . all you have in mind?"

"Why T'Pring," he said, a slyness in his voice, "What else is there to do with it?" He closed the crate.

"Great harm, obviously, if you still have not told your superiors of it."

"I have not told them for the same reason you have not told your father about me."

She blinked, adrenaline sweeping through her. How had he known that?

"All is well, T'Pring," he said, soothingly, "I do not contest your reason. As I say, it is the same as mine."

Somehow he had known of her sudden distress. . . Ah yes, the medical bond. Anger flared in her again, temporarily overriding the dazzlement and the confusion. She began to probe her mind for it.

"That reason being?" She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I know they would not approve."

"But. . ."

"I also believe in discretion," he interrupted, with a significant look at her. "As do you, do you not?"

"Of course, but - " she sighed in exasperation. "Concealing your knowledge of a portion of an artifact that nearly destroyed our race is not in the least comparable to my discretion in regards to you."

"You do not think so?"

"No, I do not."

He crossed his arms. "Shall I take you to the final place I wished to show you today?"

"There. . . is more?"

"Yes."

She did not know exactly how much more of this day she could take. The knotted twists of the canyon were as nothing next to the surprisingly jarring right-angle turns of this relationship.

She shook her head. But somehow, she also found herself assenting.

His mouth twitched briefly into his genuine smile.

"Then, follow me."

* * *

They walked on for nearly two hours, silently, through such a number of twists and turns, blind alleys and cunningly hidden doorways that even the most efficient eidetic memory could well find itself overtaxed. Nevasa slid from its zenith, angling its rays blindingly down the canyons, and of course, fate _would_ have it that their path led them mostly face-first into it. Only the constant turnings and occasional tunnels saved them from being burned alive. She followed Stonn almost blindly, beginning to tire from the thin air, scorching light, and windless heat.

He walked with the confidence of practice. Never once did he reference a PADD or anything that looked like a map. She wondered how he knew where they were going - indeed _if_ he knew - and if she could find her way back without him. . .

"I. . . am trusting you a great deal today, Stonn," she called to him, almost panting. "Are you aware?"

He was some meters ahead. He let her catch up to him, then did what he had attempted to do several times today. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes," he said, then paused. "But it is only fair. I did tell you that I am placing all my trust in _you_ , did I not?"

"You did."

"You will see why shortly. . ."

She stood still and caught her breath for a minute. He let her. She looked at his hand still on her shoulder. He removed it.

She looked him in the eyes, letting the weight of her many questions show in her expression, but backing up to one of her first.

"Why do you own a long-range shuttle?" she asked, stolidly.

He shrugged slightly.

"I wanted one."

He turned away down the _spathel_ , clearly expecting her to follow.

For some reason, that was the most confounding and frightening thing he had said and done today. She did not know why. . .

Wait. . . yes she did.

It was illogical.

Everything else - his constant concealments, his prevarications, his contradictions, his non-answers, even his emotional displays - all still had a logical foundation, and could be simply explained. In short, with every other instance, whatever he had said or done, at least the cause was sufficient.

But this. . .

It was wanton. Purely emotional. _Boshait'luu-karik_.

Her heart sped, and it had nothing to do with the too-bright light, the stuffy afternoon heat, or the lack of oxygen.

At last, they came to a long, deep straightaway branching of at a slight angle from the rest of the maze. The walls suddenly narrowed almost close enough to climb chimney-style, and the path dipped to twice - maybe even three times - the depth she had become used to. Finally they could walk below the sunline. Slowly, her over-dazzled vision cleared. The straightaway seemed almost infinite, reaching out onto the hazy purple distance like a tunnel though the air. Pale grey mists of steam obscured the limits of her sight, however. The journey here had naturally turned them around a great deal, but as she raised her head, squinting to to look at the distant smear upon the sky, she concluded that this particular canyon might well lead all the way to the T'Karath hot springs. She relaxed slightly. The T'Karath Sanctuary was well known to her. She finally knew approximately where she was.

A hundred meters or so onward, and a she saw a very strange anomaly - something she would never have thought to see anywhere on the Seleya Plain, and certainly not in the fabled _Vis'pa-rish_. Cut into the wall - high enough for morning sunlight, but low enough to be reached with a standard hoverlift - there was a slot-terrace, planted with very green and obviously flourishing _shu'vasaya_ vines.

She blinked at it, looking a question over to Stonn, but he seemed not to notice.

A few meters further and there was another. Two more. Past that there were ten, a dozen, twenty at a time - neatly cut ladderlike shelves in the stone walls of the canyon - cut far too precisely for nature, and far too frequently for coincidence.

Stonn, still ignoring them, took her elbow and pointed up ahead.

"There is a well over there where we may drink and rest."

She looked closely at him. His expression was different than it had been all day. He looked. . . excited. . . pleased. . . anticipatory. . .

Happy.

The lower portion of the canyon walls bowed outward suddenly, leaving them standing at the end of a huge oval shaped almost-cave. The walls arched gracefully upward, mimicking a Terran place of worship, only much bigger. The only natural light came from the still narrow canyon-ridge overhead, and was fading in the late afternoon. The now widened walls were dotted with dark doorways and lighted windows.

It was like stepping straight from the deep desert into a tiny but fully urban city. Nothing about the place felt wild or desertlike - even the air smelled cooler, softer, greener. There were nearly two score of the cave-houses, most quite small in appearance, but some were two stories tall, judging by the windows. One or two of the doorways looked like entrances to natural caves, but the vast majority had clearly been artificially cut into the sheltering rockface.

She spotted the well. It was next to the nearest cavehouse, just beneath the canyon overhang on that side. It was surrounded with smooth sitting-stones and a few scattered folding tables. She made for the closest of these, trusting that Stonn would bring her water.

She sat down, positioning herself so she could see over the whole of the oblong. She could see no other people, but the place was clearly inhabited.

She wondered. . .

_What?_

_Who. . ._

All at once a loud stream of young ones emerged from across the oval. The central cave there looked bigger, by its facade. It must be a school, or some kind of training house. Two of the older children carried fist sized balls made of what looked like tempered plasti-rubber. They tossed these between them, then to the others, in a fast pattern she could barely follow. Sometimes they kicked them back and forth, sometimes caught them, sometimes dodged, all with such fast and complicated gestures she could scarcely fathom the object of their play. She quickly counted at least eleven children, but they moved so erratically at their game that it was very difficult to be sure. Also, and unusually - for Vulcan children, at least - they made loud chattering conversation while they played, and many times they laughed.

For ten minutes they kicked up dust all over the courtyard, playing their mesmerizing, inexplicable, pointless game, and then at some invisible signal, they scattered to their homes. Sudden quiet descended - just as quickly as the noise had come, it was gone. In silent ones and twos they walked to their own houses.

Save for one, a small boy, who came over to her.

He had noticed her during the game, and now looked at her curiously, tilting his head and pursing his lips. Then he looked over her shoulder to where Stonn had been standing near the well, watching the game as she had done.

The little boy made eye contact with Stonn, then smiled and looked back at her.

She felt a tiny thread of a mental probe from the child.

She started. Such a thing was _extremely_ rude. Even given the wildness of their game, she would not have thought these children capable of such intrusion. She quickly put up a disproportionately strong mental barrier. The boy stepped back a little, casting his eyes down.

Somewhere else, something in her mind clicked. Her subconscious had finally found Stonn's medical bond. It was tiny, weak, and very shallow. He had sustained it far beyond its natural lifespan, without acquiring her consent. It was hers to do with as she pleased. With a few expert touches, she broke it. It briefly shattered, then dissolved into the background aether of their minds, leaving no trace of itself.

The boy was looking at her again, then back at Stonn, then back at her.

"Brother Stonn invited you?" he said.

"No." She shook her head.

His forehead crinkled in confusion. "Then who did?"

"No one."

"Someone must have - no one comes here unless they are invited."

The boy spoke with the innocent arrogance of the very young. Strange. He was little, but old enough to learn the required _c'thia_ disciplines.

She made her voice gentle, but very certain.

"No one invited me."

She heard Stonn's footsteps come up behind her.

"Kantar," he said, holding out something to the boy, "Get your brothers, and take the hoversled to my shuttle. It is in the usual place. Here is the passkey."

The little boy grinned. "You brought food?"

There was a smile in Stonn's voice, "Yes - mostly ration bars, but yes. And distilled water. And juice powders. And even some candy. The list is on the passkey. Tell T'Paal before you go."

Kantar leaped and danced a little, nodding his assent. "It'll take time. . ."

"Only if you go through the maze. It will be cool enough soon to go over the top - wait until then. Oh, and bring my lady's shopping basket," he said, with a gesture at her.

The boy nodded again, took the passkey, and scampered away.

Stonn came up beside her, placed a small cup of water on the table in front of her, then sat down on a nearby stone.

"I am crushed, my friend," he said, quietly but jovially. "Who said you were not invited to this place? Did I not bring you here?"

"You did." She answered curtly, drinking the water in one gulp. "It was not an invitation."

He ostentatiously leaned both elbows on the table.

"Please T'Pring, spare me the semantics. They are useless here. . ."

"What _is_ this place, Stonn?"

He smiled, wide and unashamed.

"I would have thought you had figured it out by now. This is the Seleya _kil'av'o_ of V'tosh. . . _ka'tur_." His smile faltered slightly before he said the last word.

As well it might.

So much had already happened today that she felt herself nearly incapable of shock. She reached inside herself and felt. . .

And felt. . .

 _Was_ she shocked?

She. . . she _must_ be. . . she. . .

She _hadn't_ predicted such a thing of him. . . she couldn't.

Could she?

"So, this is what you meant by trust," she said flatly. It was not a question. He answered it anyway.

"Yes." He nodded. "You know all about me now. And I must trust that you will not reveal my. . ." he gestured around them, " _our_ secret."

"What would you do if I did?"

"Deny it, of course."

" _One lie invalidates all previous truth._ "

His mouth twitched. "Disagreeing with Surak is allowed here."

"Then you disagree?"

"I do."

She looked at him, exasperation overcoming her confusion. " _Why_ did you bring me here?"

But the look in his eyes was sweet and warm. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder again.

"I have begun to know you these past few months," he said softly. "But, you have scarcely learned the first thing about me. I do not know if it is a deliberate or unconscious attempt to remain true to your bond - a bond you openly find no comfort in." His mouth worked in confusion. "But, either way, you _must_ know this about me now." His voice raised to a fierce whisper, "I may be V'tosh _ka'tur_ , but that does not make me any less _Vulcan_. T'Pring, you are everything to me now. I cannot live without you - you _must_ know that."

She gently pulled away from his hand on her. She made no other answer.

There was a very long pause.

Every previous time he had shown emotion, she had treated it like she would any such slip from any ordinary Vulcan. That is: normal. It was common for Vulcans to occasionally forget themselves when in casual company. Such slips were sometimes even considered complimentary to any accompanying individuals, given that it was often their presence that could inspire such internal forgetfulness. Breaks in control could be seen as generous - like small gifts from someone's inner life. But that was only when it happened occasionally and mildly. Anything great, or strong, or dramatic - that was almost always seen as offensive.

It was true that Stonn had often shown greater and stronger emotion than was at all common, but he had always done so in private with her, never in the presence of others. And so she had unconsciously forgiven it, because she. . . she. . .

Because. . .

Best to be honest with herself.

She wanted him. Intensely. Almost desperately.

He was different, and accommodating, and kind, and interesting. He had _listened_ to her, when there was no one else who would. Above all, it was clear that _he_ wanted _her_. There would be no misunderstanding when the time came that. . . well. . . when the Time came. Frankly, he was everything she had wanted Spock to be. In time, and with just a little help from a Healer, she hoped, he could easily take up the broken end of the bond with Spock, and her _katra_ might not even flinch at the change.

He was. . . or at least he had been. . . safe.

Any ordinary Vulcan would understand her logical desire for such a choice-mate.

But now. . .

He was no ordinary Vulcan. Deliberately bonding with a _ka'tur_ was about as unsafe a proposition as possible.

The silence hung unbearably between them.

Eventually she gestured with her eyes at the door where Kantar had gone.

"Why did he call you brother? He does not look it."

Stonn smiled a small, soft smile. "Genetically, he is not. "Brother" is my title here. Mother T'Paal leads us, and her daughter, Sister T'Paal, _will_ lead us - when her time comes. Brother Vannam supplies clothes and his electronics expertise; Sister Jeriin tends the wall farms; Brother Varin cooks and cleans; both Sister Fena and Brother Melak teach; and I. . ." He swallowed. "I bring whatever I can plausibly buy enough of without arousing suspicion." He sighed a little. "Food - power units - tools - sanitation and medical supplies - survival gear - books. And every now and then I can bring luxuries like a replicator or two, holovids, a hoverbike, or a utility sled."

Every word of his was brightly colored with emotions, ranging from wry sarcasm to resigned sadness. She desperately held back her reflexive need to be insulted. His speaking with such open passions implied she was incapable of inferring his meaning from the content of his speech. It was equivalent to him outright calling her dim-witted. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. _He is_ ka'tur. . . _Stonn is a V'tosh ka'tur_. . .

"Stonn. . . you. . . _sponsor_. . . this. . ."

"Yes!" he interrupted, suddenly far more vehement, "We all do what we can for each other. Is that so wrong?"

"It is when the settlement is illegal." _And the control is nonexistent_ , she thought but did not say.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, "Being a _ka'tur_ is not illegal, T'Pring - it never has been."

"I did not say it was. I said the _settlement_ was illegal. Which it is."

He nodded sardonically. "Yes. And that being the case, what are we supposed to do? Live as nomads in the open desert like our ancestors? Die without homes and almost without history?"

"It was good enough for our ancestors. . ."

"Yes, and look at what happened to them!" his voice raised in his excitement, and he pointed back at the maze. "It has taken us _generations_ to reconstruct who they even _were_ , let alone their thoughts or ambitions. Their entire body of memory is ephemera, like a sand picture in a storm - I ask you - is that a profitable way for us to live _now_?"

"If you choose the philosophy of the Ancient Ones," she said, relentlessly, "then it logically follows that you choose their way of life as well."

He snorted and shook his head. "T'Pring. We cannot. Every adult here was raised as you and I were raised. We cannot go back into the Wild. You know as well as anyone - " _A shed coat cannot take to skin again_." We _know_ what it is like to be settled, what education and peace can bring to us, what technology can be and do, what it means to farm and to tend the soil." He gestured around them, " _Logically_ we should be allowed to live wherever we can."

"And _illogically_?" She let a tinge of his sardony flavor her emphasis.

He huffed a short laugh. "Illogically, we should still be part of society. There will always be radicals and free-thinkers in every civilization - and any government that does not make room for such is in need of a serious reminder of its duty to the people."

Her jaw nearly dropped. "You speak of _treason_?"

"No, I speak of equality."

She stood up, beginning to pace."You are a son of a High Clan - you _know_ that equality is impossible."

"Not equality of _purpose_. Not equality of _destiny_." He also stood, coming over to her. "We choose to live with our emotions instead of without them. That is the only difference."

"No," she said, turning to face him. "You choose to live without _control_. _That_ is the difference."

He smirked. "Control does nothing to help during the Fires."

"For shame. To speak to me of that which we do no. . ."

He bounded at her, grabbing her wrist. "I am not ashamed of the Mating Time, T'Pring. Why should I be? It is only then that we are truly ourselves." He pulled her closer to him, "It is only then that we know our own hearts. . . "

She blinked at the odd expression on his face, lighted only by the dim reddish glow from the lighted windows.

"It is only then that we. . . live. . . and. . . it. . ." He paused to draw breath, his eyes focused unwaveringly on her mouth, for some reason. . . " _I_ have. . . found it to be. . . worthwhile. Even, dare I say. . . enjoyable. _Desirable_."

She had heard that _ka'tur_ often espoused such solipsism, but she had never expected to encounter it. . . or find a rebellious part of herself agreeing with it. It was certainly true that there were emotions she had never experienced save for during her Time. Emotions that, deep down, she _wanted_ to experience.

But. . . to _deliberately_. . .

_He must be mad. . ._

He took her other wrist, gently but firmly. "Are there any who look for your return today? Or rather, tomorrow? Nevasa will be down soon. . ."

She blinked, taking several seconds to comprehend his words. "It. . . it is _Gadshahtuk_. I go to the Temple."

"Just for the _odva-ho'rah_ , or for the complete Water Ceremony?"

"Usually only the Reading, but. . ."

"Good," he interrupted, "Then you can spend the night here."

He walked to one of the smaller cavehouses, pulling her along with him. With a hard twist expertly applied - which, she thought, he really _ought_ to have seen coming - she freed her wrist from his grasp.

If she had been hoping to make him upset, she failed, for he only smiled. Then he pulled a long chain from around his neck, unhooked a metal-toothed key from it, and used it to open the permaplast door. It took a second or two before she realized what he was doing. She had never seen someone use an old-style key before. Even the Reldai's Sanctuary at Gol had more technology than this place.

The door opened on a hinge. He waved her inside.

The inside of the cave was as plain and rough as indicated by the doorway. All of the walls were of unfinished sandstone, clearly artificially cut into the canyon wall, and smooth only where lasers had been used to enhance the more usual sandblaster-quarrying technique. The first room was nearly empty except for a petroleum-fuel powered stove near the shuttered window, and an ancient looking stasis/replicator combo unit that stood in the corner. There were a few shelves on the walls, and nothing on the floor.

Primitive. Very.

The second room was slightly more furnished, with a ragged but clean carpet, a table, two chairs, three lanterns, only one of which was lit, and a shockingly varied assortment of small artifacts - all apparently cleaned and labeled. They were sorted into boxes stacked on the table, and spread all over the room, giving the place a very haphazard appearance. There were no pictures or tapestries anywhere, and only a few modern conveniences. A PADD. A comm. A datacard or two. Nothing more.

Two other hinged permaplast doors led from the room, one at either end. He led her to the right-hand door.

"You may wash your hands, if you wish. I will prepare some food." Then he closed the door between them. She heard him go back to the first room. She could not, in good conscience, call it a kitchen. . .

She stood there, in his toilet chamber, surveying the situation.

This room, too, was small, but almost preternaturally clean. She wondered how he kept it that way, for there was no running water. But, that was not entirely unusual on Vulcan, even in the technologically rampant age they lived in. There was a sonic shower in one corner, but its power source had been removed. Instead, a water collector/recycler pad was placed on the shower floor, with a bucket and a fragment of soap making the rest of his washing setup clear. The toilet itself was set into a vacuum sealed composter rig - the kind of thing colonists often used, or anthropologists could legally give to the primitive races they studied. In a niche to one side, there was a small pitcher of water and an empty bowl set atop a tiny table.

She went over to it, and rinsed her hands with a thin stream of the clean, cold water. A moment later, she splashed a palmful over her face too.

She shook her head, drying her face on a white linen napkin. How did this man exist? Even his _toilet_ was a study in contrasts.

A modern, technologically savvy man, who worked with the distant past every day, and who cared more for the pragmatic than he did for the intellectual. He had found a place for himself in two such opposing lifestyles it was incredible. His beliefs had left marks all over him. It was so very obvious now. Even here, in this little room.

 _How could I not have_ _**seen** _ _? How could I not have known?_ _**Did** _ _I know. . . ?_

She heard him moving about in the central room, probably clearing the table or setting it with food.

It was impossible for her to think of a _ka'tur_ doing something so. . . normal. . .

The common belief in regards to the Ones Without Logic, was that they lived lawless, violent, wild lives, so much like their ancestors that most groups ended up destroying themselves. If not individually - with disastrous Times or uncontrolled bonds that led to insanity, or even serial murders - then collectively, with clan wars or rampant Challenges thinning the communities until they could not support themselves. It was not a spurious belief, for not only did their race's history bear it out, several such groups had been observed to engage in all of these fratricidal conflicts.

And yet, to be a One Without Logic was, indeed, _not_ illegal. It was strongly discouraged, certainly, but there was no law that actually prevented it.

For almost a millennium after the Coming Of Peace, _ka'tur_ had been allowed in nearly every tier of society. High Clan leaders could be _ka'tur_ , Lower Clan members often were, and common folk of all types could freely disagree with Surak. Every class and creed had their Illogical Ones. Indeed, such broad-spectrum areas of uncontrol had sometimes incited interclan conflicts, or minor brush wars, but they were such small things compared to the massive wars from before the advent of Surak that they were all too easily ignored. Perhaps even deliberately ignored.

It had been a mistake, but one that took several generations to bear its evil fruit.

Things had not come to a head until Somok, the Fifth Scion Of Surak, had died, leaving his twin sons to contest for the position. One, the firstborn, was _ka'tur_. The second was not, and thus contended that he represented Surak more truly than his brother, giving _him_ the right of ascension. There had been a Challenge, and a fight, and the younger twin had triumphed, leaving the elder alive, but badly damaged, both in body and in soul.

If it had ended there, Stonn might not now have any cause to desire equality for the _ka'tur_. But the elder twin had not accepted defeat - a thing she could easily understand. However, instead of attempting to make amends, or suggesting coexistence, the elder twin began rallying as many to his side as he could, working underground against his brother's position, in as classic an instance of sedition as could be found. Three years later, the Vulcan Civil War began.

_A misnomer, if ever there was one. There was nothing "civil" about it. . ._

Then, while Terrans were experiencing an emperor called Charlemagne, Vulcans engaged in their bloodiest conflict since Surak and the War For Peace. _That_ had been named the Last War, but in truth it was not. The "Civil" War was their true Final Conflict. And it was the one for which every Vulcan was most ashamed.

_Because by then we ought to have known better._

Finally, on the last Vulcan battlefield, the youngest twin had stood over his dead brother, weeping as he declared two new laws. First, that no persons of blood relation could fight in a Battle Challenge - if one did offer it, then that one would be held accountable for all injuries incurred; but the one who _accepted_ would be declared the lesser of the two, regardless of the outcome.

And then, he decreed that High Clan heredity would no longer be decided merely by rank or birth, but by the deeds of the claimant, by his spirit, and his heart. The Elders of each clan, especially the Matriarch, would decide who was the true Heir, for Surak had brought Control, yes, but clearly he had not brought true Peace to everyone.

Then, he had his brother carried from the battlefield, and buried him somewhere in the desert, without name, marker, or memorial. And then, the youngest twin had declared himself nameless as well, handed the rights of Scion to his brother's infant son, commanded that the Elders teach him Wisdom as well as Logic, and so saying, disappeared into the mountains. He was never seen again. Such was to be the fate of all those who brought war to Vulcan - they would be rendered nameless and forgotten.

Since then, it was accepted that any _ka'tur_ who wished to remain _ka'tur_ , was therefore to have no rights nor place in society. They could live in the Wild, if the Wild would have them. The ranks of civilization could not stand for their discord.

For T'Pring to even be here, in this house; for her to speak to Stonn, or acknowledge his presence. . . it was against every social code she had ever been taught. It was fantastically illogical.

Perhaps that was why her stomach thrilled at the thought.

She sighed, and leaned against the door.

She still wanted him.

Strange. . .

It was as though his being a _ka'tur_ changed nothing.

And yet, it changed _everything_. . .

A grand conflict of emotions rose in her mind, crowding out rational thoughts.

_Finally. . ._

She suddenly realized that this uncertainty, this conflict of questions and knowledge, had actually been living in her all day. She could not blame it on Stonn.

_I am no better or worse than he. . ._

Stonn might be unconventional, but her situation with Spock was _impossible_.

_Better two outsiders standing together than two pillars of society clashing at every turn. . ._

Mustering a courage she did not feel, she stepped out into the central room.

* * *

The table was cleared of all artifacts and boxes, draped instead with a clean cloth of sun-bleached wool. Spread out simply upon it was a plain but generous meal of bread, yoghourt, honey, and preserved fruit. A jug of tea sat in the middle of the table. The plates and cups were of thick, coarse ceramic, glazed in a cheap, uncouth brown, but like everything else, they were intensely clean.

Stonn broke the first piece of flatbread, offering her the largest half, as was traditional. She took it, for it was her due as guest. Then she began to eat, in silence, as always.

The bread had the unmistakable grainy texture of most replicated food, but it was not unacceptable. Everything else was fresh and irreproachable. She ate with a heartiness that surprised her. She supposed the unexpected exertions and constant shocking revelations of the day had tried her beyond her normal constitution.

Stonn played the perfect host, filling her plate and mug as quickly as she emptied them. But, he ate slowly and sparingly, watching her for the most part, with a conversation waiting impatiently behind his eyes.

She let him wait. He had held the advantage over her nearly all day - he could afford a little restraint.

Left thus with her own thoughts, she contemplated him.

Was he. . . _could_ he be. . . dangerous?

All _ka'tur_ were _considered_ dangerous, naturally. Any person with the powerful passions of a Vulcan, but devoid of the firebrake of control, had in them the seeds not just of discord, but of vicious anarchy. It was true that their passions, when tamed, had led to the best of all their achievements - art, technology, contact with other planets, and the like, but C'Thia still needed A'rie'mnu. To abandon Control was to let Chaos tear at the most delicate portions of yourself.

But. . .

Did A'rie'mnu not just as surely need his sister? Indeed, when speaking of one, did it not imply the other?

Perhaps, by over-emphasizing Control - as there was no doubt the current Vulcan culture did - there came a stifling of the variety that only Chaos could produce. Certainly she had observed a reduction in the creativity and curiosity of the generation that had come up since she had been at school. There was a sort of insularity about it, like an invisible straight-jacket upon the whole planet. _Kolinahr_ was more popular than ever, especially among the young, who, theoretically, needed it the least. Spock was not the first or only of her generation to engage in a subtle but deep rebellion against the strictures of the times, she saw that now.

Vulcan culture, just like every other, experienced cycles, ups and downs, and variations. They were slower and longer than most, certainly, but not invisible, especially among the ranks of the High Clan youth.

For herself, she knew she was an anomaly. Living with a diagnosed mental illness, she could be nothing _but_ an anomaly.

But. . . perhaps Stonn was not. Perhaps he was only one of many in their generation.

He had hidden himself well - in plain sight.

How many more like him were there? One? A dozen? A city? An army? Who could tell?

But the house she sat in, and the meal she was eating, did not speak of transience or newness. Things had been like this for a while - long enough for this settlement to have dug in safely, if not permanently. In short, this place held all the hallmarks of a full-fledged civilization. And so did he.

No. Surely he was not dangerous. Not in the generally accepted sense of "being uncivilized", at least. . .

But - there _was_ a difference about him. It hung about his eyes and mouth. A glow, a zest. . . a _tang_.

Was finding that attractive so very wrong?

No. It was not. But he was far more than simply someone she was attracted to. He was rapidly becoming _necessary_ to her. Only a few minutes ago, he had said he could not live without her. She had pulled away from him then because the feeling was very nearly mutual.

She _wanted_ him. More than she had ever wanted anyone before.

But her heart shrank from the prospect.

She had wanted to become a Reldai: She could not. She had wanted to join her father's Clan: She found it too difficult. She had wanted Spock, and all he stood for: He did not want the same.

Three times she had chosen a life, and that life had rejected her.

She was quite understandably wary of choosing yet another life, especially one centered around a person so devoted to Chaos as she now knew Stonn to be.

But. . .

Somewhere in her stomach, there came the conviction that her choice had already been made. . .

Stonn rose to clear the table. End-meal was over.

"Do you ever go to Temple?" she asked him, hoping some light conversation would dispel her heavy mood.

"Sometimes, yes. Usually to the one closest to my apartment in Shi'Kahr."

She nodded noncommittally. "I go to the one in Kha'Planth."

"And I shall deliver you there, safely and promptly, tomorrow morning."

His voice was flat, bored.

No. . . not bored. _Preoccupied_.

He came over, gently took her by the elbow, and led her to the left-hand door.

"In the meanwhile. . ." he said, trailing off as he opened the door.

When she saw what was within, she resolutely held her face impassive.

For all that the rest of his little cavehouse was rough and plain, his bedroom was a decided bower of comfort.

Rich tapestries of silver-gray, embroidered with scarlet, blue, gold, green and purple silk covered every square centimeter of the walls. There were two large couches, overstuffed and soft, covered in dark brown suede, and piled with soft cushions and blankets. His bed was not large, but it was a good thirty centimeters deep with sehlat skins. Faux ones, she hoped. . . The floor was tiled with smooth, unglazed tiles of an expensive blue-gray clay. They were soft to the feet, cool without sweating, and earthen without being coarse. Everything was rich, beautiful, harmonious, and soothing. A delicate lamp of pink blown glass hung from one corner, throwing a delightful glow over everything. The whole room smelled of incense and sleep.

He stepped around her, and across the room. He pushed aside a heavy curtain, revealing his closet. Slowly, he extracted two sleeping tunics and two pairs of soft cotton pants. He handed one of each to her.

"For you, my lady. I will go and change in the other room." He made to leave.

"Wait," she said, peremptorily. "Where am I to sleep?"

"Here, of course." He smiled. "The question is, where am _I_ to sleep?"

"You. . . give me that choice?"

"But of course." His brow furrowed and voice deepened with incredulity. " _What_ do you think I _am_?"

" _Ka'tur_."

" _Ka'tur_ does not mean _evil_ , T'Pring."

"I know that."

"Then. . . what _do_ you think of me?" His voice had dropped to a whisper.

She looked him straight in the eye. "I think you are the kind of man who _always_ harbors an ulterior motive."

His characteristic smirk returned to his face.

"You wish me to admit that I brought you here so I might attempt to seduce you? Very well. I admit it."

He shrugged, and for the first time ran his eyes over her with open desire.

Adrenaline shot to her extremities, preparing her to run for her life.

She had never heard or seen anything so dangerous as this.

Or so desirable.

He wanted her. She wanted him.

The situation _ought_ to have been simple.

She could not fathom why it was not.

He was staring beyond her now, a faraway look on his face.

"Has it ever occurred to you that before the Coming of Logic, as a people, we were happy?"

She gave a quiet gasp. This was beyond heresy.

"We nearly _destroyed_ ourselves. . ."

"But in between times," he said, dreamily, "I think we were happy."

She slowly clenched her hands into fists. "Women were kidnapped and raped to death in the hundreds of thousands - no one protected them. Men went mad and killed themselves over trifles - no one aided them. Young ones became ill or went insane. Old ones turned on their children. Almost fifty percent of our endemic species of fauna were hunted to extinction. The only industry was for implements of destruction. Wells were fouled, the air was dirtied, and good land was razed into uselessness. Clan fought clan for no reason and less profit. Children were taught nothing but their parent's grudges. Violent death was nearly a certainty - if anyone had all four grandparents it was considered strange, or even a sign of cowardice. No. I do not think we were happy."

He frowned. "You know it was not always like that. Only near the end."

"What came beforehand, led to that."

"Yes - but did it have to?"

"That is a matter of rhetorical polemics. The answer is irrelevant."

"Not if you want to be happy."

" _Happiness_ is irrelevant."

A sharpness entered his expression. "Do you really believe that?"

"It is logical. I _must_. . ."

He interrupted, throwing his arms into the air with a grandly dismissive gesture. "Pah! What has _logic_ ever _given_ you? All it has ever done is take things away."

A pit opened in her stomach, emotions pouring out from it and making her breathe harder. He was right. He was wrong, oh, so very wrong, but he was also _right_. She turned away from him, struggling to draw a breath. The very air was thick and unyielding. The nightclothes he had handed her slipped unnoticed to the floor.

 _I must not listen. He is a V'tosh ka'tur. Stonn is a_ V'tosh ka'tur.

And he had brought her to his bedroom. . .

She set her jaw, inhaled, and turned and faced him.

"You are illogical. . ."

He blatantly smirked.

"Entirely."

"It is. . . impossible. . ."

He nodded.

"Probably."

" _We_ are impossible. . ."

He reached out, resting his hand, not on her shoulder again, but against her neck. His skin was wonderfully warm.

"Very likely."

She stepped closer to him. "But. . . it is. . ." She paused, forcing herself to inhale again. He smelled like the sun, hot and clean. . . "It _is_. . . desirable."

"Completely. . ."

Only the barest flicker of Spock's face flashed behind her eyes as Stonn kissed her, the fingers of his free hand sliding against hers, the other moving up to intimately touch her face. He pulled her mind into his own, letting her feel where his desire lived, letting her feel it with him.

For the first time in her life, she _felt_ , and there was no questioning, no fear, no turmoil. A brilliant _t'hy'la_ bond flared into being. She cried out in shock at the sensation.

It was not peace; it was far more addictive.

 _Oh, Spock, if you had ever once_ _**felt** _ _like this. . ._

Stonn's arm stole around her waist, and bringing his mouth against hers, he husked a line of ancient poetry into the skin of her lips.

" _Ek'sarlahh teretuhur: Lu'wak se yehtt._ "

She gasped. She knew the context of that line. It was neither logical nor chaste.

She felt Stonn smile.

A moment later, she forgot Spock completely.

 _Finally_. . .

* * *

It was a strange sensation indeed to reach out in the middle of the night, and feel another body in the bed. Never before - whilst being in her right mind, of course - had she shared a bed with anyone. Even through the barriers of clothing and two thick sehlat-wool blankets it was odd, to say the least. To say the most, it was unutterably distracting. Six times in the first three hours, she was awakened by the tiny motions of Stonn shifting through a sleep cycle. And then his breathing was never in time with hers. This small dissonance was enough to keep her awake each time his motions disturbed her.

But even that was nothing in comparison to when she _did_ manage to fall asleep. They had most definitely established a _t'hy'la_ bond, and it not only glittered with newness, but it thrilled with dreams. Dreams that they either could not, or did not want to block. Every time she drifted off into the oasis of the Shadowlands, _his_ mind would be there, mixing up her usually placid thoughts with snippets of electric, gold-tinted adventures - dreams of the kind she had never seen before.

Once she was a warrior woman, a blade in each hand, her armor splattered with the green blood of beasts and men, and she was thrown, quite without warning, into a battle with legendary giants. . .

And then, she could fly - her armor fell away, and she was an eaglet, newly fledged, soaring on an evening thermal, far away from anything. . .

And then she was in Stonn's arms, fiercely kissing him as he tore her outer garment clean down the middle. . .

Then she started awake, her back pressed against his, and his warmth bleeding through the cloth between them.

Again and again this cycle happened, disturbing her sleep as nothing ever had before. Finally she reluctantly woke him, pleading for some distance between their sleeping spaces. He grumbled sleepily, but did get up, eventually ensconcing himself on one of the couches.

After that, her sleep was undisturbed physically, but. . .

The bond still reached out towards her, instilling her mind with images and feelings and longings the like of which she had never known.

She never told anyone the content of their subsequent dreams. . .

* * *

No Vulcan could live though such a night as that, and remain unchanged. A _t'hy'la_ bond did not have to be a deep or intimate thing - witness her bond with Spock - but to share a night's dreams like that, so soon after the creation of the bond, and _such_ dreams. . . well. There was no better way to ensure the bonding was a level above the usual.

Sure enough, it was the bond that finally woke her in the morning, as it shone with a. . . a bright kind of. . . of. . . she was not exactly sure _what_ was happening, but Stonn was very oddly pleased, and the light chime of it had told her it was morning.

She slipped from the bed, inhaling the freshly cool scent of the air. The empty nest of blankets and pillows on the nearest couch told her that Stonn was not in this room, but the bond was clearly telling her he was nearby. She stretched, her muscles unused to his mattress of skins. Then she turned to dress in her neatly folded clothes from yesterday.

A minute later, she was done, and went to find him. The bond was still. . . odd. It was sparkling, shining with a new day, but the color was off. As though he was. . . in conflict? But he was undeniably _pleased_. She did not understand, and there was only one way to find out. . .

She strode quickly through the two small rooms, noting in passing that her shopping basket had been placed atop the dining table. As she approached the outer door, she heard several moderately loud voices, clearly arguing. One voice seemed to be Stonn's, for it rose and fell in tandem with the glittering sense of the bond.

She opened the door a few centimeters, just enough to see what was happening.

Stonn was standing a few meters away, near the middle of the courtyard, arguing heartily with an older woman, two middle-aged men, and a girl of about sixteen. They were all gesturing wildly, sometimes at Stonn, sometimes at the door of the house where she stood, and sometimes down the canyon path towards the Maze. They spoke in extremely rapid Old Golsu - so fast and so jumbled up together that she had a great deal of trouble following what was being said. The two older men shook their fists, the old woman snapped, and the young girl stood in a most rebellious posture. Stonn faced them all in turn, holding his own with great assurance, and with an equal volume.

Finally, the argument wound down, they all bowed politely, and Stonn returned to the house, his step light, his expression just as pleased as the bond said he was.

"Well! There's that settled." He clapped his hands lightly, then took up her shopping basket and began to unpack it.

"What. . . ?" she did not bother to conceal her confusion.

"Oh!" He laughed, quietly. "A small renegotiation of my rent for this," he gestured around them. "Now that I have a new tenant," he smiled at her, "The price has gone up. That is all."

"But. . ."

"Oh, it is quite fair. Resources are spread somewhat thin here, as I am sure you have noticed - it is only just that I contribute more whenever me and mine _use_ more, do you not think?"

She flinched slightly at his brazen assumption that she would return here. Or _wish_ to. . .

She looked over to reprimand him, but he had discovered the packet of tea, and was smiling.

"My Treasure," he whispered.

He turned on the rustic little stove, filled a kettle with water, and measured out enough tea for both of them before returning to continue disemboweling her shopping basket.

She found his continuing presumption. . . _annoying_.

She stood up, elbowing him aside saying, "I am the guest. It falls to me to make first-meal."

"Such tradition is not mandatory here. . ." He grinned, surrendering the basket. "But, I will not prevent you."

He went and leaned on the wall, watching her almost. . . _insolently_.

She resolutely focused on her task.

The _banraikh_ were somewhat oxidized, and the _lim-tineh_ needed to be eaten before they went stale. She took a large bowl and mashed the creamy fruit into a paste, mixing in a spoonful of honey, a small cup of yoghourt, and a few pinches of some appropriate spices. His selection of flavorings was severely limited, but adequate. Then, she split the round biscuits in half, and heaped them with the mixture before putting them all under the broiler for a minute or two.

The tea water steamed, Stonn set the table, and before she knew it, they were eating another meal together, here, among an illegal settlement of _ka'tur_. . .

She pushed the thought from her mind. There would be time enough later to think of the ramifications of all this.

He seemed most pleased to break his fast with the food she had prepared, but he was singularly disinclined to make conversation this morning. Perhaps his "negotiations" had wearied him of words. Or perhaps he did not like to speak at first-meal. Or maybe he was respecting her habitual adherence to the tradition of silent meals.

However it was, they were soon finished. Wordlessly, he led her outdoors, handing her courteously up onto a hoverbike. There were no _ka'tur_ in the courtyard to watch them go, but she still had a distinct feeling of being watched. He strapped her basket onto the rear cargo-plate, handed her a helmet, donned his own, and climbed into the pilot seat.

Their journey back to his shuttle was also silent. As was the trip back to her bungalow. It was as though there were no words to be said.

Nevasa had only just showed itself fully above the horizon when he set down in front of her house. They were on her porch before he asked, quietly, if he might come inside for a moment.

She nodded.

He came in, standing awkwardly in the middle of her living area as she busily went to the kitchen to put away what was left of her things. Eventually, she went to stand next to him, asking him if he had anything yet to tell her.

"Yes," he said, lowly, not meeting her eyes. "Welcome, _ko-kai_."

She blinked.

"Welcome?"

"Yes. To the _Kil'av'o_. You are one of us now. I welcome you."

Despite everything, she was taken aback. She did not try to hide it.

"And what, precisely, makes you think that I _want_ to be - "

"Listen!" he interrupted, "You were already one of us the moment you looked into the heart of Surak and found you could not bear the peace of it. Our hearts are not peaceful, T'Pring, no matter what sort of life has been imposed upon us. We will always have tumultuous feelings within - why not accept that? Why not live fully with it?"

His hand raised to her neck as it had done last night.

She pushed his arm away.

"Logic has saved my life many times, Stonn."

"Of course it has."

"And you would ask me to give it up?"

"No." He reached towards her again. "I ask you to give up nothing. Not your control, not your meditative routine, not your career, not your house, not your name. I only ask you to accept what we. . . _I_. . . can offer. Inclusion. Support. Balance. Release." Very lightly, he touched a fingertip to her chin. "Love."

Her heart yearned to scream _yes_.

Her mind would not let her.

"You would. . . have to wait."

His eyes lit up with hope.

It was unbearable.

"And. . . it would be an undefined amount of waiting before any. . . anything. . . permanent. I am not free to marry until Spock has also found his choice-mate. Do you accept this?"

Deftly, he touched the bond they had formed last night. "Of course, _t'hy'la_."

A rush of new memories shivered down the bond. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him and maintain her composure.

"You. . . will wait?"

"For permanence - yes," he said, his voice so strangely toned that it made her look at him. His unashamed smile was on his face again. "Yes, for that, I will wait."

"But. . . ?"

"But, there are other things for which I will not wait." He reached out and ran two fingers up the curve of her ear. Then, firmly, deliberately, he did it again. . . with his mouth.

Gathering her shattered reserve, she put a hand firmly against his sternum, forcing them to separate.

"I will be late for the _odva-ho'rah_ if you do not leave."

He nodded, "As will I."

"And yet you remain?"

"I do."

"Why?"

He blinked at her for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. "Why? To discover if I am welcome to return or not, that is why, you darling _git'woa_. Why else?"

" _Git'woa_?" He had said it affectionately, but the appellation "frog" was not a common term of endearment.

He smiled softly. "It is a thing we call ourselves. Amphibians live between two worlds. As do we." He paused, almost hopefully. "And so do you."

It was true enough. But she waited a long minute before saying anything else.

Was. . . was this how Spock had always felt? Trapped between the world everyone said he ought to live in, and the one he _wanted_ to live in? She hoped not. She had always wanted to understand him, but now that she had given him up, it would be too cruel to come to understand him through his replacement.

She had lost too many of her chosen lives to begin to heap regrets upon their graves.

Stonn stood there, immobile, waiting for an answer.

"You will find me at home on the second, third, and fifth days of the week, as usual," she said, her voice finally back under her control. "I believe it would be unwise to alter our routine, if you wish your. . . our. . . the _settlement_ to remain unnoticed."

He nodded. "Good idea. In that case, I will see you next _Gadahrik_." Then he kissed her, lightly brushing his fingertips across hers, and left.

She exhaled, at last.

The _finally_ feeling was gone, but in its place was confusion, arousal, dread, and not a little bit of shame.

She went to her room and lit her _asenoi_. She began to chant.

" _Pulau na'vathular k'nuhk._

_Nar-tor pulaya s'au k'ka'es:_

_K'el'rular tun-bosh._

_Variben veh sochya kuv nam-tor,_

_Vah goh yut ha-tor._

_Ri vath kau eh,_

_Ri vath rok nam-tor,_

_Ra'etek hi etek kau-tor. . ._ "

She was very late for Temple that morning.

* * *

**=/\=**

* * *

_**Mat'dreh-vla**_ \- Vulcan unit of area. Approximately equal to 1.38 square kilometers.

 _I'ki_ \- Id, or Desire. Part of the katra.

 _ **Kusekitsk**_ \- Small chime-like bells. Usually rung at weddings or other ceremonies.

 _Kal-toh_ \- A geometric puzzle game of balance and strategy. Sometimes called "Vulcan chess".

 _ **Ackh'am**_ \- Plant much like the Terran taro, in that its roots must be cooked before they are fit to be eaten. Most commonly spiced with _f'endain_.

 _ **F'endain**_ \- The dried inner lining of the bark of the _endain_ tree. Strongly flavored spice similar to Terran mace.

 _ **Banraikh**_ \- Literally "acceptable meat". A small, plum-shaped fruit with a high protein content. Usually pale lavender or light magenta in color. Tastes much like a mixture of avocado and banana.

 _ **Po'kera**_ \- Desert melon native to the northern provinces. Grows only in cooler areas, and then only late in the season. Its smooth skin and spiky leaf-vine gives it somewhat the appearance of a watermelon and a pineapple mixed together. Has several varieties. Its flavor is much like that of a Terran butternut squash.

 _ **Lim-tineh**_ \- Vulcan style croissants.

 _ **Khray'tus**_ \- A style of Vulcan tea originating from the city of Khray. Sweeter than most blends, it is often drunk lukewarm.

 _ **Noh'bon**_ \- A style of Vulcan tea most commonly found in the province of Gol. Astringent and spicy in flavor. Contains a small amount of methyl-hydroxychalcone (Vulcan caffeine).

 _ **Hol-mor'e**_ \- A short, scrubby herb with round brownish-green leaves, and small red flowers. The entire plant is edible, including the roots. Has a taste similar to that of Terran chicory. Often used in Vulcan medicine as a decongestant or digestive aid. For this reason, it is sometimes translated as "mint", even though the two herbs bear little to no similarities.

 _Amsetri tre, t'sai_ \- "Your presence honours us, my Lady." (common Vulcan greeting)

 _ **Khy'yekuhl**_ \- Common type of Vulcan tea. Made of blended _kh'aah_ and _yon-yekuhl_. Often served chilled.

 _ **Ith'duasenara**_ \- Camping lantern.

 _ **Shehkuh'ukgad**_ \- Friday/sixth day of the week

 _T'Ralor Preserve_ \- Large protected area on the west coast of the Voroth Sea; it is set within the largest wilderness area on the planet. It contains the last living examples of over 100 otherwise extinct species of plants, animals, and trees. Also contains some of the richest stores of fossils to be found on the planet.

 _T'Khut_ \- Large, stable ice comet orbiting the same star as Vulcan. Has one moon. T'Khut has a highly elliptical but regular orbit, lasting approximately 1.50017 Vulcan years. Its orbital path is almost exactly perpendicular to the system's plane of the ecliptic. This brings it into a close encounter with Vulcan once every three years. Such gravitic positioning aids in the stabilization of Vulcan's axial tilt. Though its planetary volume is less than one-third that of Vulcan's, its dense core maintains a similar gravitic signature. This is probably the cause of the capture of such a large stellar body into Vulcan's solar system. Both VSEF and Starfleet support observatory stations on the surface and embedded in the icy permacrust. The surface is only habitable by unsheltered organisms during close approaches to Nevasa, but it does support a breathable atmosphere, functional biosphere and liquid water oceans beneath its ice floes. Class L. Name literally means "sister planet". Often called T'Rukh; literally "the watcher". Also called Delta Vega, according to Federation naming conventions.

 _T'Rukhemai_ \- Small icy moon that orbits T'Kuht. Literally; "eye of the watcher".

 _ **Buko'n**_ \- Ancient Vulcan God of Fate and Destiny. Second son of Oekon.

 _ **Sanuu, ko-fu't Tahs'sus**_ \- "Please, daughter of Tassus."

 _ **Kaah-if t'yaulu'hhk nash-veh'tor**_ \- "It is of great importance to me." (mild emphatic)

 _ **Du**_ _ **of't yaulu'hhk**_ \- "You are of great importance." (strong emphatic)

 _ **Nash-veh'torr**_ **?** \- "To you?" (mild emphatic)

 _ **Ha'**_ _ **a**_ \- "Yes." (strong emphatic)

 _ **Vis'pa-rish**_ \- Labyrinth or maze. Usually refers to the confused or random qualities of some natural landscape formations, not the purposeful logic of deliberately created puzzles.

 _Savar_ \- Ancient Vulcan God of Wanderers. Fourth son of T'Priah. First son of Kharh.

 _ **Path of Savar**_ \- Common Vulcan idiom meaning to choose the correct or fruitful solution to a problem.

 _Akraana_ \- Ancient Vulcan Goddess of Battle and Victory. Often called The Protectress. First wife of Khosarr.

 _Kharh_ \- Ancient Vulcan God of Fear. Second lover of T'Priah.

 _Ny'one_ \- Ancient Vulcan God of Fertility. Third lover of T'Priah.

 _Kah'hir_ \- Hard crystalline black stone with a high chromium content. Extremely durable. Often used in ancient times to make the swords and other weapons used by psionic warriors. According to legend can be imbued with a portion of the _katra_ of the user while they are still alive, rendering the weapon a literal extension of themselves. Supposedly this allows for more accurate and deadly attacks, but most recorded instances of its use in this way are apocryphal.

 _Ashenayek_ \- Amplifier. A device that produces amplification of a signal, electrical or otherwise.

 _ **Boshait'luu-karik**_ \- With strong emotion or desire. Lustful.

 _Kil'av'o_ \- Community. A group of people living in the same locality and under the same government. Archaic form of the word, implying strong emotional attachment within the group.

 _ **Gadshahtuk**_ \- Saturday/seventh day of the week

 _ **Odva-ho'rah**_ \- Sermon, Faith-ritual, or The Reading. The finale of the modern weekly Vulcan Temple service. Consists of a Priest or Priestess reading and teaching from several designated passages of Surak's writings.

 _ **Ek'sarlahh teretuhur: Lu'wak se yehtt**_ \- "All comes together: When the time is right." (From: _The Ballad of Kallin Ik'kar_ )

 _Ko-kai_ \- Sister. Usually used to denote a familial relationship, but can be used as a formal title.

 _Git'woa_ \- Froglike amphibian native to the Na'nam province of Vulcan.

 _ **Gadahrik**_ \- Monday/second day of the week

 _Pulau na'vathular k'nuhk_ \- Reach out to others courteously (Analect of Surak)

 _Nar-tor pulaya s'au k'ka'es: K'el'rular tun-bosh_ \- Accept their reaching in the same way: With careful hands. (Analect of Surak)

 _Variben veh sochya kuv nam-tor, Vah goh yut ha-tor_ \- He talks peace, if it is the only way to live. (Analect of Surak)

 _Ri vath kau eh, Ri vath rok nam-tor, Ra'etek hi etek kau-tor_ \- There is no other wisdom, and no other hope for us, but that we grow wise. (Analect of Surak)


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,_

_Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness;_

_So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,_

_Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."_

_\- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

San Francisco was well known throughout the galaxy for its disgusting amounts of fog. Even people from swampy jungle planets like Orion Prime were known to come to the city specifically for its exceptional quantities of low stratus clouds. There were days, weeks, and sometimes months when certain parts of the city would see nothing but damp, clammy, soupy grey. Parts of the city like, say, the student hall at 410 Sutter and Gough. . . The fog obscured everything here - sight, sound, smell, and even touch, as it drip, drip, dripped in heavy, soggy drips off of everything from railings to doorways to tree trunks. Outdoor plants often grew more mildew than leaves, and indoor plants turned sickly yellow. It was like the world was dead. True, it _was_ the dead of winter, but still.

As she pulled on her athletic shoes, Nyota decided not to run that morning, since not only would the ground be deathly slippery, it was even odds that she would barrel headlong onto some obstacle or pedestrian she had failed to see in the clogging mist. Walking would have to do for her exercise this morning. That was fine - the cafe she was supped to meet Gaila at did not open for another forty-five minutes anyway. But, the fog. . . she let out a quiet whine, then sighed. She could understand types of cold: cold and wet, cold and dry, or cold and icy. She could understand forms of hot: hot and dry, hot and cloudy, or hot and muggy. But fog seemed an impossible mixture - cold _and_ muggy. All the slow dragging of a dull summer day, blended with all the cheerless cold of winter. And it didn't help that the stuff was _so_ prevalent that practically _everyone_ was blasé about it. . .

_No wonder it isn't in ANY of the recruitment information. . ._

She fought off the huge yawns that such perpetual greyness gave her, picked up her earbuds, and slung her bookbag over her shoulder. She was just about to leave when her comm. chimed for new mail, with the special upward trill that indicated a priority message. She sighed.

"Computer, download to earpieces, audio only."

"Acknowledged."

She put her earbuds in and stepped out into the cold world.

Reluctantly, she did admit that the constant dreary dampness did have one positive quality - five seconds out in it, with tiny stinging droplets pricking all over any exposed skin, and any thought of sleep fled hopelessly away. She wanted to run, or jog, at least, just to get her blood moving. Instead, she walked as briskly as she could.

"Play message, authorization Uhura197," she murmured, tapping the volume button on her left earpiece.

With a cheerfulness that was downright insulting at this time of the morning, Captain Pike's voice came over the comm.

" _Greetings Cadet Uhura! Congratulations on completing your first full-length semester! I have reviewed your grades and your teachers' comments from it and the two intersession courses you have taken. I have also spoken with your direct advisor, and we agree that your next semester's units should consist of at least fifty-percent Xenolinguistics courses, in addition to the remainder of the Core classes you have yet to complete. A list of recommended XeLing classes is attached. Commander Getton will help you if you have any questions, as usual. I have scheduled a meeting for all three of us for the first of March - the_ Carrington _is supposed to be back by then. Contact Jenna if that isn't convenient, and we'll reschedule. Good luck to you! Pike out_."

The message beeped as it ended. She sighed and dialed up her favorite walking music. As Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ played, she growled a little, not so much in distress at Pike's message, but more in resignation at her situation. _Finally_ she was going to move past her Core classes. At _last_ some Xenolinguistics. . .

It was only to be expected that Starfleet Academy's main function would be to train people how to live and work in space. Of course - it was the naturally occurring focus of the place. But, that did not shake her conviction that she had just wasted almost eight months. Spending the Summer intersession studying things like basic FeSos programming, general sensor reading skills, military etiquette and protocol, and hour after hour of Prime Directive training was. . . not actually so very bad, in hindsight. In fact, it would have seemed almost exciting had it not been followed up with an Autumn semester full of dietary simulations, artificial-g simulations, null-g simulations, away mission protocol run-throughs, emergency protocol run-throughs, hard-vacuum exercises, Yellow/Red alert reaction exercises, five whole units of ship evacuation procedure simulations, a required basic First Aid course, and a _daily_ two hour lecture period on interspecies ethics and protocol. All things she saw the need for, of course, but which still _felt_ like a waste of time when your major was Xenolinguisitcs.

Still, she had taken the right things over the Winter intersession, and her Cores were almost finished. Now she could move on.

And she really ought to be intensely thankful for Pike, since without him she wouldn't ever have gotten here at all. . .

* * *

_"You certainly have a nice place here, Mrs. Uhura," said Captain Pike, for the second time in the last fifteen seconds. "Yes indeed, a very nice place."_

_From practically any other man such needless repetition would have sounded awkward at best, or obsequious at worst, but to Nyota's considerably well attuned ears, Pike sounded genuinely impressed and respectful._

_"Why, thank you Captain," said Mamma, grinning placidly at him as she did to all visitors of which she approved._

_"Please, call me Chris, Mrs. Uhura," he said, finally sitting down. "Formality certainly has its place, especially in Starfleet, but this is your home, and I'm only here to help."_

_The long couch creaked a little from the weight of all three of them upon it - a task it had not been called upon to perform ever since most of her siblings had left home, and this living room had been closed up. Mamma had only opened it up now since he was a very special guest._

_"Lieutenant Commander Wacera told me I_ _**could** _ _help, but do you think I can?"_

_"Oh certainly," said Mamma, abstractedly pouring tea for all of them, "She's our cousin, and knows all about the trouble Nyo has had. . . but it's maybe better if I let Nyota explain - she's the one involved, after all."_

_"By all means." He smiled down the couch at her. "But, as I understand it, there really is nothing to explain, Ms. Uhura. You have taken the Starfleet entrance exam twice, passed it twice - both times placing in the top five percentile - but were not accepted either time. Is that correct?"_

_"Yes," she said, calmly respectful. "That's the story. . . as far as it goes."_

_"And what am I leaving out?"_

_"Just that I was up against non-Humans both times. Well, the first time there was one other Human there - he didn't get accepted either, by the way. It seems odd that there should be so many qualified xenolinguists around who not only want to get into Starfleet, but also test out higher than me. Or at least higher enough to make choosing my application impossible. . . and it. . . well. . . it feels a bit. . ."_

_"Speciesist?"_

_She blushed a little. "Well. . . yes."_

_He smiled. "I know exactly what you mean. It does feel that way a lot of the time, especially concerning standardized te. . . sssst. . . wait." He paused, then his head snapped up, "Did you say xenolinguists?"_

_"Yeeees, I did," she said, confused._

_"Are you sure_ _**all** _ _the other applicants were xenolinguists?"_

_"Well, no, but - "_

_"But_ _**you** _ _personally took the Communications weighted test?"_

_"Of course."_

_"So, you went to a public access Starfleet entrance exam, and quite possibly you were the only one who took the Communications form?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Twice?"_

_She was starting to get tired of repeating herself. "That's my area of expertise, Captain Pike. And that's what the instructions said to pick. . ."_

_He interrupted with a short sardonic laugh._

_"Yeah. Well, there's your problem. Grading for the General Access tests is weighted towards Command Track applicants." He shrugged, seeming almost boyishly ashamed of the whole situation. "When you take a GA entrance exam, no matter your actual field of expertise, you have to choose the Command form, or you're screwed. Beats me why. Captains are dem all without a crew. Point is - unless you test out at literally 100%, all non-Command applications are automatically shifted to second tier."_

_He added, very gently, "Unless all the other people you took the exam with tested out under 70%, you didn't stand a chance."_

_"Oh."_

_She let this sink in a bit. Talk about wasted time. . . Anger flared in her stomach, but she fought it back. At this point, getting angry was fairly useless._

_"Uhm. . . why do they do it that way?"_

_He shrugged again. "You got me. Maybe it's to give recruiters like me something to do? Who knows. But the good news is that since you've passed the Communications form twice, all I need to do is run you though the basic physical/mental fitness module, get an updated medical report from your GP, and then you can sign all the paperwork. Today, if we can manage it." He winked at her. "As a captain, I'm even qualified to hear and formalize your Oath. You all packed and ready to go?"_

_Her eyes widened, and her stomach started doing backflips. "You mean. . . ?"_

_He smiled his friendly smile again, "Well Ensign Uhura, Starfleet certainly isn't going to let a supremely talented xenolinguist like yourself go into space without at least four years of the best Academy training credits can buy. . ."_

* * *

She smiled at the thought of her past self. For nearly twenty minutes after Pike's announcement, she had whooped and cheered, called a half a dozen of her best friends, and done her fantastically nerdy happy-dance all over the house. It was with some difficulty that he even got her to settle down to take the written portion of the fitness module.

She had blazed it, of course.

A few moments after that, she managed to be solemn as she took the Starfleet Oath of Loyalty and Honor, promised to uphold the standards of the Federation, and observe all lawful orders given to her by a superior officer.

Six hours later, she had been packed, had attended a short but exuberant farewell dinner hosted by Nura and Diya, kissed her placidly happy Mamma, and lay, sleepless, on her bed, waiting for dawn and the transport to San Francisco.

She smiled now to think of all that innocent joyousness. The past eight months had put quite a damper on all such moods. Besides the fog, there was loneliness, culture shock, fairly extreme dietary changes, and constant, _constant_ work.

Since she had known from the start that she would find little fulfillment in most Core classes, she had determined to finish them all her first year. That meant starting during Summer Intersession, and not taking the weeks off for Winter Break. A few hours each weekend was the most break she had allowed herself in all those eight months. Not to mention it was the first time she had spent an extended amount of time in America, and the culture was. . . well. . . different.

She sighed, and readjusted her long knitted scarf so it covered her ears.

America wasn't bad, not by any means, but. . .

For someone so ingrained in Africa, its ways and ideals, to be suddenly surrounded by a totally different worldview had been quite a shock. The soul of America was just as warm, just as beautiful, but it hid under heavier wrappings than it did at home. Or at least it did to her. She found people open-handed and friendly, but each one seemed to exist in their own world. It was so difficult to really _know_ them. It was as though everyone was President, and no one was a mere citizen. Even the churches seemed more distant, more aloof and regal. Prayers seemed to catch in the clouds, and had to turn into glittering mist before they could ascend any higher.

Now, at home, it was as though you could never get away from family. Even perfect strangers in the marketplace coddled you as though you were their own grandchild. It was not considered odd to be invited home for dinner by someone you had just met. There, you lived so tied to the earth that even space and the stars were merely next door neighbors.

Here in America, the stars were things to be worked for, reached at and fought for and won. They were dreams. Prizes. At home, they simply were. Like parents. Like children. Like air. Bitterly missed if you didn't have them, but _almost_ taken for granted if you did.

She didn't kid herself - the change was good for her. Too much interdependence was what had drawn Africa into World War III, after all. And personally, she had always craved a bit more distance from those around her. Holding yourself apart from others was very difficult in Africa, and she had always wanted more independence than she had ever been allowed. But, to be thrust suddenly into a whole _culture_ that revolved around independence had still been a very deep shock.

But she had adjusted, and now looked forward to the Spring. Real XeLing courses! She skipped a little on the slippery ground. She couldn't wait.

The Spring semester would be _nothing_ like her first. . .

She had always considered herself well-motivated, a good planner, and functional under pressure, but her first month at the Academy had taxed her far more than she could admit to anyone. More had been expected of her than she had ever known she could give, and in subjects that were not her major.

Five weeks into the accelerated Summer Intersession courses, she had nearly given up. Midterms had almost broken her. The fact that the finals for two of her key classes had been scheduled for the same day had literally reduced her to tears.

_What I would have done without Gaila I'll nev -_

"Here at LAST, are you? Come in out of the cold." Gaila yanked her into the welcoming warmth of The TanGent Café, then dragged her over to their usual corner booth. The cafe had only been open for ten minutes, but already it was filling up. It would stay full for the majority of the day, too, since it was _the_ most popular spot for students in the area. It was clean, comfortable, the food was insanely good, the coffee was strong enough to melt transparent aluminum, and just to put it over the top, the wifi signal was unfailingly excellent. How Gaila had managed to permanently reserve the best booth in the place she had no idea. . .

Well. Actually she _did_ , but she preferred not to think about it.

"I've already ordered you your favorite pancakes," said Gaila, wriggling into seat with a happy twist, "And I got a side of that turkey fake-bacon you like, and the coffee came eight minutes ago, so it's probably cold by now - I'll order some more - where WERE you?"

"Walking. Couldn't run. Sorry." Her answer was clipped and short, but quite often you _had_ to be clipped and short with Gaila, if you were lucky enough to get a word or two in edgewise at all.

"Well, you missed the barista giving two guys the brushoff and our waiter playing bouncer to get them out. It was hilarious - I actually learned two new swear words! - by the way, is "crybaby" a good thing or a bad thing? I mean, I get it if it's bad, because crying is generally bad, but it makes sense for babies to cry so how can it actually be bad?"

"It's an insul -"

"Oh, well, I guess that makes sense too, oh! Did you you know that Professor Jackson dyed his hair blue to show support for a couple of girls in his class? I really need to look in on that man - he deserves a little bit of support himself. . ."

"Gaila!" she said, reprovingly.

"What?"

" _Professor_ Jackson?"

Gaila crossed her arms. "You know as well as I do that the fraternization rules are only there to guard against non-consensual incidents and to keep any consensual relationship from becoming exploitative."

"Point," she shrugged.

"Damn right. Anyway, I was thinking, either gold lamé with pink rhinestones, or purple jaguar print for this dress. . ."

Ny tuned out most of her friend's chatter, focusing instead on the hot plate of food that had just arrived, the steaming cup of coffee she now held, and the sweet warmth of the cafe. It was early enough in January that Christmas decorations were still in evidence - mostly tinsel wreaths, twinkle lights, and angels riding on snowflakes. Her Winter Intersession classes had ended a scant ten days ago, just in time for Christmas. And here she was, planning for Spring.

She was so tired. . .

For a second the gloriously fluffy blueberry pancakes lost all their flavor.

". . . and if all else fails, I'll take you to EmbAudio!"

Ny's ears perked up as Gai mentioned her absolute favorite AV supply store.

"What about EmbAudio?"

"Ha! I KNEW that name would make you pay attention! The chorale club is trying to organize a trip to Malibu for Spring Break, and I _want you to come with us_. AND I want you to buy new swimwear - I'll do _whatever_ it takes to get you out of that boring onesie you've got and into something that makes you look good." She waggled her eyebrows. "I'll even make linguist puns. . ."

"It's called a onepiece, and if you make another joke about "dip-thongs", I _will_ make you sorry. . ." But she knew the subject was far from over. She sighed. Whatever nebulous plans she had been making for herself, she'd be going to Malibu now, sure enough. She looked over at Gaila's determined face. There were very few ways out of it at this point. . .

"There's time enough to think about Spring Break, Gai - "

But her friend just laughed in triumph, and then prattled on about the next thing. Slowly, Nyota relaxed.

Eight months in, the surprise of finding the sound of Gaila's chatter soothing had mostly worn off. Nyota was far past the point asking questions about her roommate, or why she reacted to her in the ways she did. Bottom line - Gaila's babbling was a nice noise, and she liked listening to it. Which, of course, Gaila knew. It was why she did it.

Gaila was a sweet girl, really, and only overbearing if she really honestly thought the situation demanded it. And she generally chose her battles well.

_Of course, her weapons in most of those battles involve excessive amounts of lingerie. . ._

Then again, they hadn't known each other for twenty minutes before they were on nickname terms and were finishing each other's sentences.

Ha. More like twenty _seconds_. . .

* * *

_She was exhausted. No matter the century, registering at a college was an excessively tiring business. At least she had qualified for a fairly good dorm room - it was on the express bus route to the main campus, and across the street from the Botany Department's four acre combination garden/sub-campus. Plus, the room was a suite, complete with a real water shower. And she was only going to have to share with one roommate, unlike most, who usually had to share with two at least._

_She dragged herself through the door, and managed to dump her purse and backpack on the only currently unoccupied bed before said roommate spoke. The girl was obviously Orion, with her brilliant red hair, glowing green skin, and almost impossibly wide smile._

_"Hi, I'm Gai."_

_Yes, most definitely Orion. . ._

_"Um. . . good for you?" she said, half uncertain what to make of the bald statement._

_"Oh - you mean the Terran slang term for homosexuality!" The girl giggled. "That isn't what I meant, since I'm not - well, actually I'm pansexual - but no, I mean my name is Ontarn Gaila Ta Mo-Shuon, but you can call me Gai - it's my nickname, see? And I just thought that since we're going to be roommates and all that we should be friends too - and from all I can tell Terran friends usually show affection by having "pet names" for each other, and I thought that since we're going to be living in the same room we should probably start with that, and - "_

_"Hi, my name is Nyota Uhura, and you can call me Ny, if you want to," she said, deciding that interrupting was the only way to go._

_"Oooo! that's a pretty name! In-yoh-tah!" She pronounced it carefully. "I like it - it sounds like honey! And it doesn't need a nickname. But I'm sure I'll call you Ny sometimes too becau-"_

_A knock at the door interrupted her._

_"That'll be the porter with my boxes," Nyota said, rushing to key the door open._

_"WOW that's a lot of stuff!" Gaila stood, staring slack-jawed at the well filled luggage cart._

_The porter grinned, but said nothing. He pushed the hovercart into the room, wordlessly accepted the tip Nyota gave him, then disappeared down the hallway._

_Gaila was still staring at the cart._

_"DON'T tell me you brought all that WITH you? Your transporter ticket would have cost a_ _**fortune** _ _."_

_Ny grinned. She couldn't quite blame her, given that the cart held several bags of packaged food, eight good sized boxes, and two heavy suitcases. She lifted one of the last to her bed, beginning to shift some socks and t-shirts to the nearest chest of drawers._

_"I took a tour of the city yesterday, Gai. I bought most of these clothes then." She pointed at the two top boxes. "And there was this amazing produce market. . . anyway, that's where most of the food came from." She gestured at the bags of snacks and staples._

_She started to unpack the food, heaping the bags of plantain chips and single serving cups of instant cornmeal in one corner, and putting several bottles of peach flavored kefir in the room's mini stasis unit._

_"So, you aren't rich?" asked Gai. "The stereotype is that all Humans are rich. . ."_

_She laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Define "rich". I mean, if you're talking about education or access to life's necessities, or time and resources to pursue your dreams, then sure - we're all pretty much rich." She planted her hands on her hips and looked with a friendly smile over at Gai. "But isn't "being rich" really just having enough to share?" She handed her a stick of goat-meat jerky from the tub she had just opened._

_Gaila took it, nodding. "For a Human, I'm sure it is, for the most part. That's one of the great things about your species." She bit into the snack and hummed her approval. "For an Orion though, richness is measured by your willingness - well, unwillingness, actually - to exploit a situation. Rich people are the ones who can afford to ignore a weakness."_

_Nyota hesitated in the middle of lifting her second suitcase off the cart. "So. . . does that mean you_ _**don't** _ _actually like being sex-slaves? That's good to hear."_

_"Ugh!" Gaila growled in disgust. "THAT old stereotype! It greets me around every street corner - it's TERRIBLE!"_

_Ny grimaced in sympathy. "Well, just so you know - I never believed it. Seemed too much like something a stir-crazy cock-blocked drug runner might brag about in a dead end dive of a bar."_

_Gaila grinned at the image. "Could be where it started. Wouldn't surprise me. . . It IS very true that we like variety. But that's not the same thing."_

_Ny nodded, heaving two boxes full of books to the floor. "And I'm sure it doesn't help that in Kolarie the word "slave" means something else entirely than it does in Terran Standard. . ."_

_"Honey, you have NO idea." Gaila bounced back onto her bed, folding her legs akimbo. "I mean, if a person has a kink that's one thing, we can totally explore that - I have almost no turn-offs and no inhibitions at all - but just going ahead and doing that kink without asking or explaining or setting up a safe word or making sure the whole thing is safe? Nope, I'm not into that, and I don't know a single Orion who is. It's like. . ." She tilted her head to one side, trying to come up with an analogy. "It's sort of like enjoying every flavor of ice cream, but not enjoying having it shoved up your nose, you know?"_

_Nyota held back a laugh. "Oh, I get it, trust me."_

_"Do you really?"_

_"I'm a xenolinguist, of course I do. Words mean things. The problem is that they mean different things to different people. Just look at Vulcans."_

_"Vulcans?" Gai wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Why? They bond as children, mate for life, and are almost genetically monogamous. Bor. Ing."_

_Ny giggled. "No, I meant words meaning things but different things to different people."_

_"Oh. Then what about Vulcans?"_

_"To them "logic" is almost the same word as "love" would be to us Terrans, or "sex" would be to you as an Orion. Taken socio-culturally, those three words are almost literally synonyms. Cultures are funny things, and I guess we're just lucky our misunderstandings of Orions has turned out as well as it has."_

_Gai snorted. "'Well'? I've filed almost forty assault charges already and I've only been here three weeks!"_

_"Yes, but we aren't at war with your planet."_

_"I guess so." Gaila shrugged. "That WOULD be worse, of course. I can cope."_

_"And I'll help you. Once they see you've got a friend you don't sleep with I'm sure things will calm down." She opened the closet, only just managing to conceal her shock at the absolute glut of ostentatiously patterned clothes already in residence._

_"Once classes start things will get better too. I doubt most cadets will have the time to. . . but you know what?" Gaila bounced excitedly, shaking her curly hair, "I've heard there will be almost a_ _**hundred** _ _non-Human cadets this semester - some of them are just going to have to MAKE time. Because much as I love Humans, all that variety is so sweet I jus - "_

_Nyota laughed. "Only someone like you could go from "all men are jerks" to "wow dat ass" in less than a heartbeat." She gingerly pushed the violently patterned clothes to the side a little, making just enough room for her own clothes._

_"Hey, if you were me, you would too. Despite the rotten oranges, there's just so much juicy goodness out there - sometimes in the most unexpected places - and I just can't wait to try it all."_

_Ny moved over to the cart and began sorting some of her new dresses. "Apples. It's rotten apples. And try to leave me_ _**some** _ _guys, Gai, please."_

_"I thought it was apples and oranges that don't compare to each other? Anyway, I try to leave them better than I found them - you might actually enjoy them more once I'm done with them."_

_"Fruit metaphors are weird and nope, sorry - I'm not going to date anyone you date. Basic Human courtesy."_

_Gaila gave a dismissive laugh. "First, I'm not Human, and honey, one-night-standing is not dating."_

_"That is not a term, and it still counts."_

_"It totally is, and that's stupid."_

_"Is not, and too bad. Those are still the rules."_

_"It is too because I made it up and I am just as qualified to make up words as anyone else, I don't care if you are a xenolinguist, so there!" She took a deep breath and then sighed. "How can you stand all the rules, Ny? I have two rules - be safe, and have fun. If it isn't safe or fun, don't do it. See? Easy to remember, easy to follow. Whereas Humans? . . . gah! How can you stand it?"_

_"Take a Human Sexuality course if you want to know the evolution of Human monogamy - I'm not going to sit here for hours and explain the psychology and the biology." She shook out her two best pair of slacks, and hung them up. "The point is, it's pragmatic. It works for us, so we do it this way. It appeals to nearly all sets of accepted Human moral codes, and it simplifies a lot of things. So, please leave me some of the boys, if you would."_

_"Just boys?"_

_"Yes, just boys."_

_"Human, non-Human, mixed with Human, or just mixed?"_

_"Any of the above."_

_"Mammalian, reptilian, amphibious, avian, insectoid, arborescent, aomebic, or silicate life-form?"_

_Ny blinked. "Arborescent? Really? What am I, Groot?"_

_"Well. . ." Gaila grinned, "What if you get hooked on that feeling?"_

_They stared silently at each other for a second, then both dissolved into laughter._

_A couple minutes later, Galia recovered, and crossed her arms. "Well?" she asked, quite seriously._

_Nyota took a second to remember the question. "Uhhh, I generally prefer mammalian, but I'm willing to try almost anything so long as is comes_ _**without** _ _uncomfortable chemical incompatibilities and_ _**with** _ _a compatible personality and. . . um. . . parts." She hid her blushes by stooping to arrange several pairs of her shoes._

 _Gaila grinned slyly. "You're_ _**sure** _ _about 'just boys'?"_

_She nodded. "Yep, I'm sure."_

_"But what if their species has more than two genders? Or just the one? What if they're dual-gendered? What if they identify as female but still have. . ."_

_"Okay, look, just let me pick for myself, okay?"_

_"Okayyyyy. . . but you'll let me know if you need any special equipment, right?"_

_"Specia. . . what. . . no, Gai, I've got that department completely covered."_

_"You_ _**do** _ _? Okay, where is it?" Gai dropped down and began to root among some boxes Ny had just pushed under the bed._

_"Where is what?"_

_"The box of goodies, of course. Or rather, the trunk. You have to have a_ _**huge** _ _box if you've got it_ _**completely** _ _covered, and I want to see it. I don't care where you hide it, I'm_ _**going** _ _to find it."_

 _"What. . . you. . . I don't. . . Gai,_ _**stop** _ _." She pulled her up and looked her straight in the eyes, "I don't have a "box of goodies", okay? Not that kind of, anyway." As a desperate peace offering, she held out what was left of the snack basket Nura had sent with her._

 _"Ooo! You have_ _**cookies** _ _? Even better." Gai grabbed two lemon-poppyseed ones and crammed a frosted persimmon one in her mouth. She mumbled around it - "You know what this means, right?"_

_"What?" Nyota asked, warily avoiding a spray of crumbs._

_Gaila quickly chewed and swallowed. "We get to go_ _**shopping** _ _for goodies!" She bounced up and down with almost disturbing cheerfulness. "I already looked up all the local places, and there's this one website. . ."_

_Oh, there was NO way. . ._

_"No, Gai. I meant what I said - I have that department covered. If it ever becomes a necessity, I know what and where and who and all that."_

_Gaila seemed to wilt._

_"No shopping? Lame. That was one of the Human rituals I was looking forward to, actually."_

_Nyota remembered a gorgeous emerald green satin evening gown she had seen in the city yesterday, but hadn't had the guts to try on. Maybe if she went back with some moral support. . ._

_"Well. . . maybe we can shop."_

_Gai squealed in delight._

_"But not for_ _**those** _ _kinds of goodies."_

 _"Why my Ny," she purred, blinking her wide, shining eyes with feigned innocence, "You aren't actually_ _**ashamed** _ _to own a vast glittering collection of_ _**toys** _ _, are you?"_

_"No, but I think I know what shopping with you is going to be like, and if there's one thing I don't need in my life, it's mechanized synth-rubber hotdogs waving in my face."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Not my thing."_

_"Oh, the double-on-tenders."_

_"Entendres. Double-_ _**entendres** _ _."_

_"That's what I said."_

_"No, it isn't."_

_Gai pouted. "You're going to date some half-wit non-personality from Wichita, aren't you?"_

_"Do you even know where that is?"_

_"Yes!" she snapped, then amended, "Well, no, but it's fun to say - Wichita Wichita Wichita - Woo Woo!" She pumped her arm like she was pulling the whistle-chain of a classic steam engine._

_Nyota shook her head._

_"_ _**Please** _ _tell me you'll at least date someone interesting, Nyota. Not someone bland or stuck-off."_

 _"Stuck-_ _**up** _ _. And I'll do my best." She looked about herself. There was nothing left to do at the moment - the hover-cart was empty at last._

_Gaila sprang from the bed. "I'm hungry. Let's go get lunch. I've been wanting to try out the cafeteria food anyway."_

_"Sure. Just a sec." She fished into a drawer and pulled out three jewel-toned babydoll tops, shook them out, draped them over her arm and held them out for Gai to see. "Which one should I wear?"_

_"Uhhhh. The purple one," Gaila said, pointing to the one in the middle._

_Ny blinked. "That's green. This one is purple." She held up the one closest to her elbow._

_"Oh, is it? Sorry." Gaila looked crestfallen. "I have a type of cerebral achromatopsia - I guess you'd call it "color dyslexia". My eyes tend to swap two colors if they're too close to each other. It's fairly common among Orions. It's why most of my stuff has patterns on it - they're easier for me to distinguish than plain color stuff."_

_"Well, that's fine," said Ny, deciding not to be embarrassed. "And 'achromatopsia' is a_ _**great** _ _word." She slipped on the purple shirt, laughing. "Well, I guess that settles_ _**my** _ _major - but of course you've already guessed - so what's yours?"_

_"Computer Science," said Gai, perking back up, "I'm already hacker-classed in FeSos - they should just give me access to all the main computers now - I'd have every ship in the 'fleet running 30 percent more efficiently by the end of the week."_

_Ny grinned, grabbed her purse, and made to go outside. "Oh, I'm sure you would."_

_Their student hall was one of several in a small cluster around a large interior courtyard. It was ideally situated, because across the street was one of the Academy's secondary campus areas. A wrought-iron fence surrounded about four acres of parkland, with trees, and grass, and tracts of gorgeous flowers. There were no guards at the gate, either. They walked along lovely pathways, only occasionally spotting a building, and when they did, it was low, elegant, and inviting. Most of them were greenhouses, where ostensibly the Botany students worked all day, but they saw no-one in them at this hour. All in all, it was a very pleasant walk, with the sky glowing with the different-but-nice smell of early summer, and many birds Nyota had never heard before singing in the trees and bushes._

_"There!" said Gaila, pointing to a bigger, dark shingled building just beyond a stand of young birch trees. "That's it!"_

_Then she sighed, soaking in the beauty around her. "Why aren't you a Botany major, Nyota? Then we could eat here all the time."_

_Ny laughed. "Anyone with a valid Academy passcard can eat here whenever they want, but I can virtually guarantee you won't want to. You haven't smelled the inside yet."_

_At Gai's confused look, she continued, "It's a cafeteria! That means the food will be crap."_

_Gaila's forehead wrinkled in disbelief. "Even here?" She gestured at the wonderful garden around them. "With all. . ._ _**this** _ _?"_

 _Nyota nodded. "No matter what kind of food goes_ _**into** _ _a cafeteria,_ _**all** _ _of it will come out the same. You basically get four choices - Bland, Overcooked, Deep Fried or Just Plain Nasty. This being America, I'd stick to the tater tots if I were you, and prepackaged yogurt if they have it._ _**Maybe** _ _the desserts too - just so long as it isn't Boston Cream Pie." She shuddered._

_"How do you know so much about cafeterias?"_

_She shrugged. "I've worked in Nairobi for years, and I've been to London, Paris, Berlin, New York, Dallas, Mexico City and the Bahamas with my brother."_

_"Wow, your brother moves around!"_

_"He's a singer. I worked as a translator for him when he went on tour one year."_

_"Ooo! Sounds like fun!"_

_"It was, for the most part."_

_"What does he sing?"_

_"Pop and R &B, mostly. Some Country. Some Jazz too."_

_"Any Jiknu Jazz? I love that stuff."_

_"Well, his last album had a few songs. . ."_

_Gaila blinked, then grabbed her arm, interrupting. "Wait. Uhura! Your name is Uhura!" She hopped up and down. "As in Dauid Uhura? As in Dauid And The Philistines? As in Big Daudy D who made a collaboration album with Sal Vitteo herself last year?"_

_"That's the one." She frowned at herself just the tiniest bit. It was very odd. . . She seldom told people about her relation to Dauid, and_ _**never** _ _someone she had just met._

_"So COOL!" Gai squealed._

_Ny coughed a little at her, getting back on track. "Anyway, trust me - if traveling all over has taught me one thing, it's that cafeterias are the same_ _**everywhere** _ _. If they have decently programmed replicators, we'll be fine, but for heaven's sake don't ever eat the breakfast tacos!"_

_Gaila still looked confused, but was instantly wary once they stepped inside._

_She sniffed, surveying the room cautiously. "It. . . smells like whatever comes out of the kitchen ought to be fed to farm animals!"_

_Ny smiled. "I did warn you. All cafeterias smell the same. . ."_

_"I believe you now!" she said, ruefully grinning, "I'm going to go check out the replicators, okay?"_

_Nyota nodded. "I'll wait over by the hot drinks counter. . ."_

_The whole back wall of the dining room was filled with replicators, the kitchens along one side, and the hot and cold drinks, extra napkins and condiments laid out on the wall opposite them. The place was clean at least, and the students that half-filled the room seemed relatively quiet and harmless. She strolled around for a couple of minutes, looking at the options. Nothing was particularly overcooked, and only one or two things were fried. Nothing looked very nasty, but she saw more than one tray of. . . something or other. . . She couldn't identify what was in them, they were so bland and gloopy. Those, now, were downright disgusting. But that was only three or four of the trays. Most of the dishes simply smelled uninspired at best. But at least it wasn't slop, for the most part._

_She wandered over to the hot drinks counter and was pleasantly surprised at the high quality and variety of tea and drink mixes. It was impressive, actually. There were baskets full of dozens of flavors of single serving tea packets, as well was a whole rack of tins of loose leaf tea. There were sixteen different types of powdered drink mixes, and five kinds of hot chocolate. Not only were there percolators for four different types of coffee, there was one for water, one for hot lemonade, and one for hot milk. There were eight flavors of creamer, two shakers of cinnamon and two of nutmeg, and three each of brown and white sugar. There was even a bowl of shaved dark chocolate. . ._

_She had just finished fixing up a cup of almost shockingly luxurious hot chocolate when Gai returned._

_"The replicators are state-of-the-art, and apparently there are five or six they will let us reprogram however we want - "so long as it's legal", they said."_

_"Good to know."_

_Gai agreed, then and fixed herself a very strange cup of coffee. . ._

_"Coffee with salt and_ _**steak sauce** _ _?" Nyota grimaced, "Gai, now_ _**that's** _ _gross!"_

 _Gaila smirked. "And have you ever actually_ _**smelled** _ _coffee, Ny? It is so obviously something that was meant to accompany meat, I can't understand why you Humans insist on polluting it with sugar." Then she led her back to the wall of replicators, tapping the controls on the nearest one._

_"Beef top sirloin steak, 300 grams, medium rare, hot, and two chicken eggs, raw, in shell," she ordered, then looked at Ny. "What do you want?"_

_"Uhhhhmm," Nyota said, helpfully, then tapped the replicator one over from Gaila's. "Brown rice couscous salad, 225 grams, cold, with parsley, diced tomato, red onions, and sesame dressing. Mango lassi, cold, with straw."_

_Their trays materialized at almost the same moment. They took them over to a small window booth with a magnificent view of a rose garden. For several minutes they didn't talk, too preoccupied with eating. Unpacking and getting to know each other was apparently far more work than either had realized._

_Personally, Nyota was impressed with Starfleet technology. The replicated food on her plate had vastly better texture than any she had ever tried before, although after all of Nura's cooking, the flavor was rather sub-par. Thankfully, Gaila seemed not to care. . ._

_Finally pausing in the middle of her steak, she hummed, "Mmmmmm, cows: big, dumb and tasty."_

_Nyota laughed. "You know there's no actual cow in that, right?"_

_"Sure. What does it matter? Still tastes good." She picked up one of the eggs, and with a slow, impossible looking gulp, swallowed it whole._

_Nyota stared at her. Gai blinked._

_"What?"_

_"You. . . um. . ." Ny stammered. "Wow. Just. . . wow."_

_"You know my race's ancestors were snakes, right? I can unhinge my jaw."_

_"Oh." Ny relaxed. "Well, that explains a few things. . ."_

_"You bet your beautiful brown booty it does." Gai licked her red lips so lasciviously, Nyota wondered what exactly. . ._

_Then she blinked. "Wait, you haven't seen my. . . and why do you. . . nevermind, I don't want to know."_

_Gaila grinned. "You're right, I haven't, but I have a lot of experience in these things, and by process of elimination I can_ _**ass** _ _ume it's just as pretty as the rest of you."_

_Nyota immediately flushed scarlet beneath her skin. She focused intently upon her lunch._

_"Sorry, was that impolite?" asked Gaila, instantly concerned, "I still don't know if compliments are a good thing or a bad thing here. . ."_

_"Oh, no, they're. . . good. . . I guess. . ." she stammered, "I was just. . . Look, sometimes a Human will take something like that. . . um. . . a bit more seriously than they might have been meant to? I think? It's just embarrassing, is all."_

_"What's 'em-bare-assing'?" Gaila asked, looking genuinely confused. "I don't suppose it's the act of taking off your pants? Because I would totally go down with that."_

_"_ _**Be** _ _down."_

_"I know what I said." She waggled her eyebrows._

_"How can you make two ass jokes and know an idiomatic meaning of "go down", but not know what embarrassment is?"_

_"Well, I've never needed to know until now. Is it something terrible? Some disease or something? No, wait, is it something that only effects Humans? I bet it is. Something private that you don't want to go public for some reason? You Terrans are always skimpy when it comes to explaining your own shortcomings."_

_"Yes. Yes, that. That right there - that's embarrassment."_

_"Explaining your own shortcomings?"_

_"No, I mean the part where we don't want to talk about private things in public."_

_"But. . . just looking at your advertisements and social media. . ."_

_"I know, I know. But all of that is big, and social, and. . . well. . ._ _**public** _ _. Embarrassment is how you feel privately. . . personally. . . I mean, things you might not care if people notice, but don't necessarily want people to actually_ _**talk** _ _about. . ."_

 _"Ohhhhhhh." Gai's expression cleared. "You mean_ _**awkwardness** _ _, okay, I see now." She swept her eyes over her, "Though_ _**you** _ _, my friend, have the_ _**least** _ _possible excuse in that department. . ."_

_Ny blushed again. "Gai-laaaa. . ."_

_"Okay, fine." She sighed deeply, and raised three fingers in a very fair imitation of the Scout's Salute. "I solemnly promise to attempt to reduce the awkwardness of whatever situation I find myself involved in." She lowered her hand. "Fair?"_

_Nyota grinned. "Fair."_

* * *

"You're thinking about me, aren't you?" Gai's voice interrupted her remembrances.

"Uh, no?" said Nyota, not at all convincingly.

Gaila rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Ny. Admit it - if you did swing a long wooden cylinder for my team, I'd totally be your soulmate."

"It's 'go to bat for', and you're already my best friend. Isn't that enough?"

Gai looked at her with a "no duh" expression on her face. "I'm Orion. Of course not."

She made eye contact with Gai, and reached over to pat her hand.

"Well sorry, I'm Human, so, it is for me."

Gai laughed brightly, "Don't ever be sorry for being yourself. I just wanted you to admit you were thinking of me."

A customer came in to the cafe just then, the door opening and shutting briefly, but still not quick enough to prevent a chilly draft from swirling about. Ny shivered. Seriously, winter could end _any_ time.

"Okay, okay. I was thinking of the day we met."

"I knew it! Here, have some more coffee to warm up." She gestured to a passing waitress for a refill.

"Actually, I'd prefer some tea now that my food's gone," Ny said to the waitress, who nodded and said she'd be right back. "So, how'd you know what was going on in my mind, Gai?" she said, turning back to her friend. "You suddenly develop some freak psychic ability?" That was all she needed - Gaila with superpowers. . .

"Ha! No. You get very specific looks in your eyes when you think about people," laughed Gai. "If I look close enough, I know when you're thinking of your mother, your sisters, your brothers, your father, Georg, or me."

Ny smiled softly as her tea arrived. "That's my friendly neighborhood Orion psychologist for you. . . " Huh. Now _that_ idea was somehow even _worse_. . .

"Are you kidding? Orions would make GREAT ship's counselors!"

"If you could keep from sleeping with your patients, that is. . ."

"Pshh, a good lay is what most people _need_ \- let me tell yo- "

Ny's comm. trilled insistently, interrupting their comfortable banter. She routed the call to her PADD and started texting.

"Huh. Judging from the look in your eyes, that's Wichita calling."

She gave her a sidelong look, almost annoyed at Gai's continuing nickname for her boyfriend. "Georg is still from Denmark, Gaila."

"You mean he's still as bland as beans."

"According to you," she said, half ignoring her teasing while tapping out messages.

"No, according to everyone except _you_. I can't believe you broke up with Puri so you could date Ensign White Bread Hendorff."

"You want me to text him what you think of him?" And she could too. He'd probably find it hilarious. Georg was one of the few cadets she'd met who, upon meeting her roommate, did not immediately forget Ny and jump ship for Gai, like the rats they were.

"Sure," Gai pouted, "I'd say it to his face, but I'm still just so curious why you broke up with Dr. Cavort-ian himself. I mean, I introduced you to Puri and made sure he took you on a date first and everything, and I even stopped myself from trying him out beforehand! Do you know how much willpower that took? The man's almost as legendary as I am when it comes to sensualism."

"Uh-huh," she mumbled. "What you _didn't_ tell me was that _Head Doctor_ Puri is a Student Advocate for Med majors, and a full Commander." She frowned, still mostly absorbed in her texts. Georg had just told her something she really should be talking to Gai about, not this old, oft-repeated subject. "Rank disparity isn't a small problem, you know."

"Isn't a small problem for _you_ , you mean."

"Yes. And also, there _is_ such a thing as sexual incompatibility."

Gai scoffed. "Between a Denobulan and a Human? Please, after my aquatic adventures with the lovely Ensign K'Hll-QolBbr, I have a hard time imagining any two species so incompatible that it's _impossible_. What could Puri possibly have done that drove you into the arms of Mr. Hendork?"

Nyota sighed, quickly texting a kiss to Georg. "Suggested we participate in a fivesome? Engaged in rather questionable exhibitionism? Insisted on some seriously wacky role-playing? Asked me to use his frighteningly toothy collection of nipple clamps? Tried to make up for that by giving me his equally creepy smile?" Puri really _had_ been impossible. Any one of those things might not have been, but all together, it was _far_ too much. They had lasted a date and a half before she'd had enough.

At Gaila's bored look she snapped her comm. closed, ending the text link. "Look. I don't have to justify my tastes to you, and have you considered that maybe he wanted me to become someone I wasn't? Solely for _his_ amusement? Has it occurred to you that _he_ might have been the one unwilling to compromise? You always push "be yourself", but why can't you accept that I'm vanilla?"

"Because you're really not."

"Oh, like you know? We've never slept together."

"That's irrelevant, and yeah, I do know. You've got a crazy wild vixen inside you, but you refuse to bring her out for just anyone. Which I can respect, by the way. It's just that you insist on dating such _safe_ people until you find the one who really wakes up that powerful sexual creature you're hiding."

"The problem being?"

"The HUGE problem being that, by definition, safe people _aren't_ going to do that. If you don't take a risk, you're never going to be anything other than safe."

"Look, do you want to know what Georg was texting to me or not?"

Gaila sighed. "Fine. But I just hope I'm there when all that sexual frustration explodes out your ears. It's going to be funny as hell. If it doesn't kill you first, that is. . ."

"No one has ever died of blue-balls, Gai."

"You sure about that?"

"You sure you don't want to know what Georg was texting me?"

She sighed again, slouching into her seat. "Fiiiiine."

"In about ten seconds you're going to wish you sounded more excited about this. . ."

Gai perked up immediately. "Really? What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," said Ny, half sarcastically, "Just that Georg's security detail has been assigned to Pike's upcoming inspection tour of the _Enterprise_."

"No. . ." Gai stared, slack-jawed.

"Yes. And he's invited you and me to Iowa to take a tour of her while he's stationed there." She grinned evilly, "Buuuut, since you're so _uninterested_. . ."

Gaila's squeal was so high-pitched that Nyota was sure every dog for two square miles could hear it. "Eeeeeeep! Ny! That's _OUR SHIP!_ We're going to tour **OUR SHIP**!" She did a seated happy dance that rocked the whole booth structure.

"Think Georg is all white bread and blandness now?"

Gai halted her exultations. "Yes. He is. But he's occasionally NICE white bread and blandness."

"Aw, come on Gai. Admit that I have _some_ taste in men."

"You know that Georg's greatest dream is to march up to someone, point a phaser at them, and say "You Rebel scum!", right?"

"Hey, at least Star Wars is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, and the Empire _loses_ , if I recall correctly."

"Annnd the Devil always gets the best lines. What's your point, Gai?"

"No point. I just don't know what you can possibly find to admire in Georg. I mean, at least Puri knows his way around a girl's body - " Gai raised a hand "- _regardless_ of your professed incompatibility with his "proclivities", you have to admit he has admirable skills in that area."

Nyota sighed, and finally added some milk to her now lukewarm tea. "Okay. Yes. Puri was very. . . generous." In more ways than one, she grudgingly remembered. Not that she would admit that to Gaila. . .

"And Georg. . .?"

"Is at least willing to learn?"

"He is?"

"Yes, he is." It was practically all he _could_ do, the dear. Sweet, derpy, awkward Georg. . . Being with him was actually a highly unexpected power trip. She'd never felt so grown up or experienced with anyone else before.

"Well, that's probably the best thing I've ever heard you say about him. Believe me, the boy is BORING."

Nyota sighed again, tired of arguing the same point over and over. "Whatever. I'm going to see if I can't sign up for my Spring classes today." She pointed at her PADD. "Pike and Jenna sent me a list of suggestions, so I'll need to read them over and pick, and schedule, and plan. . ."

"Okay okaaay," said Gaila, grinning, "I'll shut up."

"You know I _like_ your chatter, right?"

"Of course. But business is business." She dug her own PADD out of her bag, dialed up something, and began to read.

It was probably a scarlet-rated offering from her favorite author on Interspecies Romance Novels Online, but what the hay? _She_ didn't have to read it, and as long a Gaila was happy. . .

She brought up the data package attached to Pike's e-mail. There was a short list of the few required Core classes she had yet to take, and a selection of about six XeLing classes Pike recommended for this Spring.

She surveyed the list -

ACS 1018 - Subspace Communication IV;

EsCS 009 - Intermediate FeSos Programming;

EsCS 029 - Survey of UFP History III;

~.~.~

LibXA 602 - The Landscape of Xenocultural Idioms;

XeLing 103 - The Basics of Xenolinguistics III;

XeLing 111 - Advanced Semantics;

XeLing 112 - Advanced Pragmatics;

XeLing 208 - Advanced Morphology;

XeLing 213 - Advanced Phonology;

XeLing 227 - Introduction to the Universal Translator

Why the set of Subspace Communication classes were an Advanced Core course and not Essential Core was beyond her. ACS units were usually electives and counted more towards Command degrees, yet there were very few majors that were not required to take the SubsC set. A helmsman, or doctor, or even a geologist or botanist needed the basic skills taught in SubsC. Sort of like how, in the old days, absolutely everyone needed to learn Morse Code. Essentially making such an important thing an elective was nonsense. It was just another example of preference for the Command Track, she supposed. . .

And in the same vein, why in heaven's name was The Landscape of Xenocultural Idioms a Liberal Arts course? It was a pre-req for nearly all entry level XeLing courses, but did not itself count towards a Xenolinguistics degree. Crazy.

The rest of the XeLing classes Pike was recommending were copied, in order, directly from the Guidance Handbook For Academy Students. An admittedly helpful document. . . but one which she had access to herself. Not that she expected much more from him - Pike had an awful lot on his plate.

She shook her head, moving on to Jenna's suggestions -

LibXA 602 - The Landscape of Xenocultural Idioms;

XeLing 103 - The Basics of Xenolinguistics III;

XeLing 108 - Common Federation Languages V;

XeLing 350 - Common Gestural Languages I;

XeLing 229 - Universal Translator Engineering and Programming;

XeLing 241 - Music in Xenolinguistics;

XeLing 379 - Advanced Applied Communications;

She smiled. Now, Commander Jenna Getton was a woman who knew her onions. Unlike Pike, she knew what a Xenoliguistics major _wanted_ to take. As her Student Advocate, Jenna had often suggested Core classes more suited to her temperament than Pike had. Here, instead of just running down the list of required XeLing courses, Jenna was suggesting a broader selection, including a couple of things Nyota could only take now because she had worked at the Nairobi Spaceport for so long.

She immediately signed up for Music in Xenolinguistics and Advanced Morphology. The Landscape of Xenocultural Idioms and The Basics of Xenolinguistics III were pre-reqs she could not get around. Two more slots signed up for. She decided to put off Subspace Communication IV and Survey of UFP History III, as both were offered during the Summer intersession. She desperately wanted the Spring semester to be mostly Xenolinguistics. It was what she was _here_ for. Intermediate FeSos Programming would help her immensely next autumn, which was the soonest she could fit in Universal Translator Engineering. Best take the programming now. She signed up for it.

All of which left room for one more class to take this Spring. She certainly _ought_ to take Advanced Phonology, but the presence of Common Gestural Languages on Jenna's list was _far_ more tempting than it ought to be. It sounded like such _fun_. But Music in Xenolinguistics would have to be enough fun for this semester. Common Federation Languages V promised to be dull as dishwater, and she was surprised she hadn't tested out of it completely. She had, thankfully, tested out of Beginners and Intermediate Applied Communications, which only left Advanced. She clicked the link for a class summary.

_XeLing 379 - Advanced Applied Communications_

_Learn to recognize the commonalities between Trade dialects as spoken across the Quadrant. Become familiar with the usage of Vulcan, Betazoid, Orion, Andorian, and Tellarite trading languages. Learn to re-program the Universal Translator as you negotiate a wide variety of cultural interactions. This course requires a minimum of three hours weekly LLT._

_Prerequisites \- _

_XeLing 107 - Common Federation Languages IV, or equivalent;_

_XeLing 248 - Advanced Morphology; (can be taken concurrently)_

_LibXA 602 - The Landscape of Xenocultural Idioms; (can be taken concurrently)_

_EsCS 002 - Advanced Interspecies Ethics and Protocol;_

_Units \- 4_

_Required Realtime Simulations \- 2_

_Professor(s) \- TBA_

_Sections \- _

_1 - Tuesday 9 AM_

_2 - Wednesday 10 AM_

_Texts Required \- _

The United Fedaration Of Planets And Its Languages - 12th edition, _Hugo Entarlon-Smythe FISBN - 30-708-1-01-309782-9_

The Interplanetary Language Of Trade - 5th edition, _Sheila Montgomery. FISBN - 23-812-9-54-218063-8_

Business As (un)Usual - The Ups And Downs Of Galactic Commerce, _Gola F'willar. FISBN - 41-908-2-19-182212-4_

Saving Lives When 'Yes' Means 'No' - A Survey Of The Most Important Cultural Differences Of Our Time, _Ta-kkin Jer. FISBN - 19-110-5-68-889542-5_

_Recommended Texts \- _

The Elegance Of Stumbling - Diplomacy in the 23rd Century, _Frank Lejune. FISBN - 80-519-4-72-614910-4_

Bread and Circuses; 6000 Years Of Empires And Commerce, _Hannah Kyle. FISBN - 04-621-2-19-814290-7_

Understanding the Universal Translator, _Mallo D'ikent Bl-tel. FISBN - 36-198-1-11-592155-3_

_Grading Breakdown \- _

_Class Participation: 20%_

_Quizzes: 10%_

_Official Logged Lab Time: 20%_

_Midterm Simulation: 25%_

_Final Simulation: 25%_

_Link to sample syllabus_ _\- Ssylxel379_._acad_._edu_

It was all fairly standard, she supposed, but why, oh why, at this late date, would the professor be yet to be announced? There were barely three weeks before the start of the semester. She was well enough acquainted with the Academy by now to know that it was highly unwise to get excited over any class unless or until you knew for sure who was teaching it. Just take her experience with An Introduction to Interspecies Ethics and Protocol. . . It had been a huge class - of course, since everyone was required to take it - and even then, during the relatively slow period of Summer intersession, there had been seven sections, and three professors, all spread out over four days. Jenna had told her to try and take the Tuesday class taught by Professor Lakyll. And then. . . Professor Wattan had gotten sick. The ensuing mixup over who was teaching what class when was something Nyota far preferred to forget.

_Still. . ._

She took a quick look at Advanced Phonology, noticing that it too had the option for an accelerated Summer intersession course. She signed up for Advanced Applied Communications. There were only two sections. She'd risk it.

Now came the tedious part. The scheduling. . .

She brought up her class calendar, beginning to choose which sections of which classes she could take, and when, and from whom. . .

Only then, awash in the boredom of scheduling, did Gaila's words about her choice of men finally sink in.

_Safe. . ._

It was true. She liked to be safe, and she liked safe men. Growing up with Daddy and Kam and Dauid and Dee certainly hadn't done anything to convince her that safe was a bad thing. On the contrary. They had all shown her that safe _could_ be the most perfect thing ever. Safe was nice. Safe was warm, and caring, and good. Safe was _right_.

But so was Gaila.

Safe was not enough. There _was_ something in her that wanted adventure - witness her dedication to Starfleet - and she had yet to meet any man who had truly touched that adventurous bit of herself.

_Except. . ._

She shook her head. Such a brief encounter, so insignificant, ought not to be such a strong memory for her.

_Or so evocative, either._

It was all over and done with long ago. Finished. Nothing. He probably forgot her a nanosecond after it happened anyway.

And yet, it had been an adventure, and in its own small way, highly unsafe. . .

* * *

_She really ought to be studying right now. . ._

_But, two weeks into her first intersession classes at the Academy, and the stress, mixed with perfect weather, had driven her outdoors. She knew aimless wandering was not exactly productive, but it was far better than being cooped up in a library studying books on the history of military etiquette. The blue skies, the smell of the Bay, and the heady clang of bells from the classically picturesque trolleys drew her out. . . out. . ._

_As she lounged in a gorgeously wood-paneled example of San Francisco's icons, the light breeze threading through her hair, she forced herself to forget school, and the grotesquely huge task it represented. Right now she was no-one, nothing depended on her, and all the people in the scope of her vision were manifestly not students, teachers or advisors, but potential friends._

_A nice looking old Japanese lady was seated directly across from her, and was reading a real newspaper. She smiled at that. It would have seemed quaint if it wasn't just so true to this place._

_Two Andorians were seated near the front, and one Vulcan was standing a few seats up from her. He was carrying a large dark blue cloth pet carrier. Through the mesh walls of it, she could see two cats prowling around, clearly uneasy, but nevertheless quiet and calm. Though, not nearly as quiet and calm as the young man who was holding them. He looked a fairly stereotypical Vulcan, with neatly trimmed dark hair, pointed ears, upright stance, solemn expression, and slightly green tinge to his skin. He was reading from a PADD._

_Nobody of note, surely, except that he was carrying what were clearly his pets. She hadn't thought that Vulcans "did" pets._

_She shook her head, and was about to forget him, when the trolley came up to its next stop, and a whole crowd of tourists came aboard. As the majority of them were elderly people of varying species, she felt obliged to relinquish her seat, and after many polite "excuse me's" and a deal of good natured shuffling about, she found herself standing directly in front of the now thoroughly annoyed Vulcan._

_Strange that she should ascribe that emotion to him, given that of course he shouldn't be projecting any such thing, but he had put away his PADD, and last she saw was staring blankly off into space - which she could only interpret as his being at least mildly annoyed at the sudden unexpected crowd. She could sympathize - it was not exactly an ideal situation for her either._

_She was about to resolutely direct her thoughts back onto the wind, and the sky, and the beauties of the city, when she saw they were approaching a series of short tunnels._

_She cringed. She had always hated tunnels, but short ones were the worst. For some reason, any momentary blackness - like a flash of darkness - disturbed her. She had no problem with general darkness, or the velvet black of space, but a short blink of unavoidable dark in the middle of the common day simply made her skin crawl. It was not claustrophobia, it was simply an unexplainable rush of crippling terror. In those fleeting seconds of darkness, she would always think of impossible, terrible things. She could not stop herself. She knew it was an irrational fear, but that did not change the fact that her fear was real._

_The first tunnel closed over them._

_A flash of thoughts about a great clawed hand gripping her neck, and they were through, safe._

_The second tunnel passed the same way._

_Then the third. . ._

_There was slightly more traffic through this one, and the trolley slowed, prolonging the moment._

_Suddenly, a sharp brake rocked everyone aboard. For a brief second she was thrown against the man behind her. He briefly caught her around her waist, and set her on her feet again with a curt "My apologies"._

_That was all. They were out in the sunlight again. Her fear was gone. The tourists had reached their stop and gotten off, the Andorians were strolling down the high street, the Japanese lady was still reading her paper, and the Vulcan with two cats had disappeared into the Embarcadero beaming station._

_Except. . ._

_When he had caught her, his thumb had - quite unintentionally, she was sure - slipped between her t-shirt and her jeans. It was a third of a second, at most, of skin contact, but. . ._

_But. . ._

_She had felt a flash of something. Something so beautiful, so weird, so utterly alien, that for once it superseded the grisly irrational thoughts a flash of darkness always brought upon her._

_It was. . ._

_She didn't know what it was._

_It was nothing._

_He was being polite. He was being Vulcan._

_That was all._

_She wandered her way back to campus, no longer able to find any solace in the beauty of the day._

_He had been polite. That was all._

_That was not all._

_There had been something. . ._ _**something** _ _in that unintended touch._

_But she had no idea what. . ._

_No. That was not true._

_It was like a flash of light in the darkness, or a rainbow at night._

_And there had been something impossibly appealing about it. About_ _**him** _ _._

_She shook her head at herself._

Really, with this? Get your head together Nyota! Now, focus!

_He was gone, she knew nothing about him, and he had probably forgotten her already, even considering the fabled Vulcan eidetic memory._

_It was nothing._

_But this pesky assignment about 17th century military etiquette,_ _**that** _ _was something. Something she needed to finish before dinner. . ._

_She forced herself back to her lessons._

* * *

She shook her head over her schedule. She had just put Music in Xenolinguistics on the same day as chorale practice. That was too much singing in one day.

_Get your brain off of the boys, Ny! Focus!  
_

But with Gaila as her roommate, and that secret memory of a tiny adventure, it was a difficult prospect. Besides, she'd just had a thought. . . what if she took Georg with her when she and Gai went bikini shopping? The idea was endlessly amusing.

 _Oh,_ _**pickles** _ _._

Gaila was right _again._ She totally needed some fun swimwear, _and_ a fun Spring Break.

She poked over her Spring schedule until Gaila finally looked up.

"You look _deadly_ bored, Ny!" she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "That's _bad_. Come on, let's go somewhere." She leaped up and grabbed her stuff.

Ny slowly followed. "Oh. . . um. . . okay. . . where we going?"

Gai shrugged, "I dunno. Conservatory of Flowers sound good?"

"Sure. . ."

Her thoughts couldn't help wandering as Gaila dragged her outside to the nearest bus stop.

Strange. . . ever since that day, her phobia over tunnels had disappeared. . .

* * *

=/\=

* * *

Glossary for the abbreviations, acronyms and initialisms -

 _ **XeLing**_ \- Xenolinguistics

 _ **FeSos**_ \- Federation Standard Operating System

 _ **ACS**_ \- Advanced Core Studies

 _ **EsCS**_ \- Essential Core Studies

 _ **LibXA**_ \- Liberal Xeno-Arts

 _UFP_ \- United Federation Of Planets

 _TBA_ \- To Be Announced

 _ **LLT**_ \- Logged Lab Time

 _ **FISBN**_ \- Federation Interplanetary Standard Book Number


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Heavy spoilers for TOS episodes; The Cage and The Menagerie. Very mild spoilers for TNG episode; Manhunt. Rated a strong T, for themes, brief language, descriptions of violence, and suggestive material. May be slightly triggerish. If you shouldn't be here - go away! :)
> 
> A/N - This chapter was particularly difficult to write, as it includes not only a continuation of my own story, but also an AU retelling of the first TOS pilot episode "The Cage". Since it is the first time I have attempted to directly re-tell any TOS story, I am specifically interested in how it worked out.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think.

_"Be wary of too much solitude. A man alone is open to many dangers."_

_\- Vulcan Proverb_

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

" _Would Lieutenant Commander Spock please report to the med bay. Lieutenant Commander Spock to the med bay please_."

The tinned monotone of the automated summons seemed to tumble out of his intercomm. Reluctantly, he rose from his meditation posture to answer it.

"Acknowledged med bay, I-"

Doctor Boyce's voice cut in. "Now, no fooling around this time, Spock. Get in here and get checked out."

"Doctor, would it not be wise to-"

" _No_. Get yourself down to Sickbay. _Now_ , or I'll tell the Captain to bust you down to Ensign."

"Pike would not be allowed to do such a thing unless-"

"You have five minutes, Lieutenant Commander. Take six and I'll break out my collection of classic thermometers. And not the fun ones, either." The doctor cut the connection.

Spock allowed himself a small sigh. Not only were the classic thermometers a genuine threat, Boyce "had the captain's ear" as the old saying went. So did Spock, of course, but all-in-all it would be easier on everyone if he co-operated.

Several curse words circled around in his head. Not one seemed appropriate, so he said none of them.

He blew out his firepot, straightened his uniform, and composed himself the deal with the doctor. Thanks to days of a light Vulcan healing trance, the injuries to his chest and arms were almost completely healed. All the bruises were gone, and nearly all the scars had almost disappeared. Perhaps the experience would not be so very bad. . .

He changed his mind the moment he stepped out into the corridor. On the doctor's orders, he had not left his quarters for three days - he was glad now that he had obeyed. The crew's morale was quite dangerously low. It was impossible for an empath to miss the listless odor that permeated the air. As he entered the lift, he saw two cadets leaving it. They still looked haggard and frightened, even now, when the ship was completely calm. Such a continuing reaction to their recent experiences was not unexpected, but something needed to be done about it. He was somewhat surprised that Pike had not already done something about it.

As soon as Boyce was done with him, he would speak to Chris. This ship needed a successful mission, and soon. Cadets often needed a triumph in order to mature properly into officers. The current leg of their mission had them stuck in standard orbit around Gestus VIII - hardly an inspiring mission for most cadets. And the incident on Rigel VII, while not exactly a failure, had been anything but a triumph.

He sighed. His Senior's Mission had started out so _well_. . .

At first, it was a joy to simply be back in active uniform. Starfleet was introducing a new design this year, utilizing primary colors and brilliant metallic trim to designate department and rank. He frankly found it surprising that such design choices had survived through the three committees appointed to their development, for the results were oddly vibrant, and almost tacky. His first thought upon seeing them was that they contrasted sharply with VSEF's mid-tone gray uniforms - whose insignia consisted of small colored stripes down the lapel. His second thought had been that, no matter where they happened to be sent, such clothing would inevitably make them targets. But in the end, though they were manifestly not to his personal taste, he scarcely cared. His science blues were functional, and indicated his placement, his _belonging_ far better than his non-committal cadet reds.

Their first three months had been spent mostly in the Sol system and environs, in easy range of Earth, thus allowing the young crew to get used to the _Carrington_ , and each other. Starfleet ship routine was highly different than it was in VSEF, but that he had expected. Here, they scheduled large swaths of time for recreation, crew interactions and sleep, unlike aboard a Vulcan ship, where the secondary activities consisted mainly of exercise, meditation, and crew meetings. But all of it was understandable, given the majority of Humans aboard. In fact, he would not harbor any complaints if it had not been for the Human tradition of "birthdays". More specifically, it was the inevitable chocolate-filled confectionery that accompanied them he objected to, and to some extent the frivolity of the traditional songs. Without fail, he found such celebrations illogical and superfluous, but, alas, they were also all too understandable. With so many crew members on board who adhered to the Federation Standard calendar, there had been such a celebration at least three times during each of the first three months.

In between his varied rotation of science and bridge assignments, he had used those months to finish his Instructors Qualification course. It had been more difficult than he predicted, but well within his purview nonetheless. Directly after his final examination, he had applied for graduation from the Academy. After his Senior Mission was over, he was sure his application would be accepted, and he would be fully commissioned very soon after. The _Enterprise_ was still a few years from completion, but with an Instructor's degree, there would be no question of his usefulness while he waited for the new flagship to be activated.

A surprise had come with his graduation application, however. At least, it was a surprise to him. It ought not to have been, he supposed, since he knew from Pike that Starfleet was "looking for an excuse" to promote him, but Lieutenant Commander's stripes were the last thing he expected to receive in consequence of mere _anticipation_ of graduation. The citation had in fact read, "For exceptional and noteworthy academic merit".

He shook his head. He was hardly the first person to complete multiple degrees while at the Academy. To his knowledge, none of those others had received a promotion for that reason. Being so singled out as special among Humans was almost as bad as being consistently labeled as handicapped by Vulcans.

_Almost._

He exited the turbolift next to Med Bay. Three of his shipmates were in line before him, each of them obviously also here for a follow-up concerning the injuries they sustained on Rigel VII. He felt a special comradeship for all of them, as fellow servants against chaos in the galaxy. It was a good feeling. The last few months had been exemplary in that respect - he finally felt deserving of a position aboard a Starfleet vessel.

At that moment, Thlacar Wutay and Neil Antoniou were called in to the doctor, Neil still limping from the severe wounding his right leg had taken. Thla, in Andorian, made a comment about the overbearing heat of the ship, and how it aggravated his concussion. Then he turned and helped Neil through the door.

Which left Spock alone in the waiting vestibule with Tyanna St. John, the only Betazoid cadet on this mission, and one of only two of her species currently at the Academy. She waved and smiled at him, then sat down, resting the brace that protected her broken wrist gingerly on her lap. He nodded briefly in return, thankful that of all the female cadets on this ship, she was the one here with him, alone, in such a small enclosed space. She was one of the few who had never seemed to "crush" on him, and her status as a telepath gave him an easy door for friendship. She was the head of the cadet's xenopology team, so they had not had many encounters, but the few times they had spoken, she dealt with him in a graceful and pleasant manner, her dark eyes shining with an intelligence that easily matched his own. Not to mention her telepathic ability, which handily _surpassed_ his.

As she ran her free hand though her long mane of naturally red-blond curls, then crossed her shapely legs, he admitted he felt a twinge of relief that he had never been forced to refuse her charms. Besides the fact that such a lady as Ensign St. John deserved far more than someone like him, he was somehow glad he had never crossed swords with her. Even three seats away, her presence was formidable. It was rare indeed for him to feel someone was "out of his league", but, in his considered view, she was. _She_ had never felt awkward or unsure of her right to exist, he was certain.

Conversely, it was well that his time aboard ship had finally acclimated him to the seemingly inordinate attention he received from the other cadets, and women in particular. After several incidents he preferred to forget, he began to notice the signs of Human attraction before they turned into that pain in a woman's eyes. There was a posture, a sound to their voices, and a sense about them, almost a scent. Most of the time it was passive, and in such cases, tolerable. Only occasionally did it flare into more. He had found it prudent to speak to these ones, always prefacing the conversation with the statement, "I am not currently seeking a romantic attachment, but I do appreciate your company." Additionally, he had twice been obliged to direct this statement towards a Human male, once to a genderless Fendaran, and once to an Andorain triad looking for a fourth. In this way, he had avoided several mishaps, but he still felt highly uncomfortable with his method, for it was, essentially, a lie. He _was_ currently seeking a romantic attachment - just not with anyone he had yet met aboard ship. He did not know if this disappointed or relieved him. But at least he had learned to "let them down gently", as Pike called it. The majority still found him fascinating, but nearly all of them were noticeably restrained about it now.

_Most of the time. . ._

He shook his head, clearing it from several less-than-pleasant memories.

It was quite a blessing that T'Pring's Fevers had been markedly less intense recently. At least, he _hoped_ that was what it meant. Ever since he had moved out of Hill House, her Times had retreated, seemingly of their own accord. The bond was nearly always silent nowadays, almost ossified, and cold. He scarcely felt it whenever she went into the Fires - he assumed the bond itself must now be empty enough to absorb whatever madness she poured at him. That was _definitely_ a relief. A few dreams still filtered through from time to time, but with ever increasing rarity. He no longer feared it would be impossible to break the bond. If it could wither so fully, then it would not be difficult to uproot. He felt something of a fool for thinking the bond had been dead before. No, it was dead _now_. He even felt silly for having put himself through the drama of fearing it was a marriage bond, when it was clear now that it was nothing of the sort, and never had been.

But there was still nowhere to go from there. Knowing what one did not want was important, certainly, but in his case, almost entirely useless.

Tyanna gave a quiet sigh, and reached forward to take one of the PADDs from the waiting room table. Judging from the plain black case with a yellow border, it was probably one of the PADDs dedicated to _Intergalactic Geographic_. He briefly considered perusing the copy of the latest edition of _Astronomer's Monthly_. Boyce was very good about keeping his waiting room periodicals current, but Spock had his own copy waiting for him back in his quarters. Perhaps it was a social holdover from when such publications were printed on paper, but to his mind, reading someone else's copy when he had his own simply felt. . . disrespectful, almost impertinent. . . _unnecessary_.

The _Carrington_ 's first real mission, a supply delivery run to Space Station 17, had felt unnecessary too. It had been brief, uncomplicated, and easy - in short, boring. If SS17 hadn't been the staging area for the Gestus VIII colonists, he doubted that Pike would have even considered such a mission.

Spock's bridge assignment for that week had been Ops, beta shift. He found himself burdened with an overabundance of time to think. For respite, he spent a great deal of his off hours "getting to know" nearly all of the 150 cadets on board, or rather, meeting the few he had not met yet, and going out of his way to speak a few words with everyone he encountered. Some working relationships had resulted, and his acquaintance with nearly all of them was mostly amicable. But that was all. Again, he did not know if his reactive state was disappointment or relief.

It then took nearly three weeks docked at the space station to load and prepare everything for the next stage of the mission - the colonization of Gestus VIII, a planet-sized moon orbiting the gas giant Rigel VI. There was at least some interest anticipated with this, given that the Federation had also finally approved a First Contact mission to the pre-warp civilization on Rigel VII. Living as close as they did to the indigenous populations of Rigel III and IV, and the colonies on Rigel V and now Gestus VIII, avoiding cultural cross-contamination would be almost impossible. Rigel's habitable zone was unusually broad for a main-sequence star, and all but two of its twelve planets were clustered into it. Even Rigel VI and VIII - the uninhabitable gas giant planets of Gestus and Stkitshus - had several habitable moons each. And _all_ were clearly visible from the surface of Rigel VII. Some ships or other artificial interplanetary objects would be bound to be seen, even by the naked eye. The likelihood of the Rigel VII population developing a polytheistic philosophy based upon misunderstanding Starfleet's movements in the area was both highly probable, and entirely unacceptable. Far better to make First Contact now, then let their culture develop knowing it was not alone, and that its neighbors were equals, not gods.

He looked forward to that interaction. He was not a xenopologist, but science of any kind, even one not his specialty, would be preferable to being surrounded by bored cadets who found him fascinating. Even their subdued regard sometimes overwhelmed his _katric_ peace. He had taken three days of shore leave aboard the station to try and gain some mental equilibrium. But there he found a whole station of people who apparently _also_ found him fascinating. Space Station 17 was not entirely a backwater, but it received little enough traffic that a cadet ship, and all the cadets aboard it, were at least a "nine-days wonder".

Thus, the tenants of SS 17 had set out to make the _Carrington_ 's stay. . . memorable. . .

He received more propositions during that leave than he had ever believed possible in a whole year. . . and from species and genders he had never encountered before, some of which he never wished to encounter again. He had fled back to the _Carrington_ , not so much terrified as disappointed, not to mention confused almost beyond speech. Would he _never_ have a positive experience regarding this subject?

After that, there was the long, slow warp to Gestus VIII. It took over a week, because the old converted troop transport that held the colonists could not manage anything beyond warp factor 3.6. For that matter, the _Carrington_ itself could barely reach warp 7 on its best days. . . babysitting a colonist transport was an ideal mission for such an aging ship. Complicating matters further, the colony ship's antiquated navigational computer necessitated frequent stops to re-direct their route around gravity wells, or known spacial anomalies that even the _Carrington_ could have avoided automatically.

His bridge shifts that week were at Communications, alpha shift, but the assignment was almost painfully simple, requiring only a small fraction of his attention, and then only when the colonists' ship needed the _Carrington_ 's navi-comp data. Being Communications Officer had hardly ever been less interesting to him. Again, he had ample time to think.

For the first time in his life, he questioned his sexuality. It seemed a very strange thing to think about while on the bridge of a starship, but there were no other telepaths near enough to hear his thoughts, so he asked himself all the questions his mind decided to bring up. The majority of them were not questions like he had learned most Humans asked themselves, regarding _who_ he was attracted to, but like a small minority of Humans, they were primarily regarding _if_ he was attracted to anyone at all.

On Vulcan it was overwhelmingly common for an individual to be attracted to the company of one sex or the other. But, given that for modern Vulcan culture, sexual interest bore only slightly on the issue of the necessity for mating, the definition of "attraction" and the definition of "preference" had diverged sharply. Unlike in most Human cultures, when such words were used regarding relationships, they were not synonyms. "Attraction" nearly always was used to mean an entirely non-sexual concept, applicable even to inanimate objects - while "preference" was only used to describe relationships between living beings, and could often have sexual connotations. It was certainly _possible_ to experience both attraction and preference with a person, but it was not often expected. Pairs who had been child-bonded, for example: they were encouraged to develop the relationship, but no assumptions were ever made. It was entirely possible to prefer your mate, but not be attracted to them, and vise versa.

Marriage itself, of course, had never been as complicated an issue on Vulcan as it had been on Terra. A male _katra_ needed one female _katra_ during the Time. Ideally, _only_ one. And only a very specially placed bond could serve. Given such specific necessities for survival, the only sure way to guarantee their male's lives was to define marriage as "one man, and one woman, expertly bonded". Such had been the uncontested Vulcan law for time beyond memory - even when they had been at their most lawless and chaotic.

Of course, he understood why Humans considered such a definition archaic and painfully narrow, but unfortunately, Vulcans did not have the luxury of choice when it came to Times.

Among his culture, only such a specially placed male/female katric bond was considered a full marriage bond, because only such a mental alignment could contain the male's Time. In most cases, the full _koon-ul_ was also necessary for a female's Time, though it was far less deadly if absent, of course. But, regardless, Vulcans rarely chose to take the risk, and 99.76% of the native population participated in a traditional male/female marriage bond at some point in their lives.

Other forms of bonded relationships _existed_ , naturally. Everyone had different attractions and preferences - to deny this would be to deny IDIC. Thus, any adult relationship that progressed into the realm of consensual sex was not considered illegal - not usually, at any rate - infidelity was against several laws, and it did still happen, though it was extremely rare. But there was no other type of bonded relationship that was considered _marriage_. In these cases, a Reldai sometimes served during Times, but very often there were men or women willing to become a third or fourth bonded participant in the relationship, freely offering their _katras_ to create the needed pathway to salvation from insanity or death. It was only logical; neither preference nor attraction could trump survival.

He allowed himself a tiny smirk. Vulcans were known galaxy-wide for their logic, and many outside observers simply assumed their dispassionate philosophy automatically implied a prudish distaste for intimacy, or even self-imposed chastity. If it were generally known that not only did all Vulcans go into a state of heat, but a small yet significant fraction of them practiced what amounted to "open marriages", what would those people think? Spock preferred not to speculate, but he sometimes amused himself by imagining people's shocked expressions.

In any case, _knowing_ one's attractions and preferences was essential to becoming a successful adult, and he did not yet know for sure what his were. He suddenly realized that for the past few years he had been trying to force his mind to think about the matter as a Human would.

_That was a mistake. I see that now._

It was time to approach the matter as a Vulcan. . . but. . . he doubted that applying purely Vulcan thinking to his situation would be much good either. Making the attempt was logical however, and as always, the logical path demanded to be taken.

In the majority of cases, then, he was either attracted to the company of women, or mixed company. Prolonged contact with any group exclusively of men made him slightly uneasy, as though he were walking through a house where every floor was just off from level, and every wall was a degree or two off from perpendicular. To him, the architecture of any such group felt wrong. When it came to individuals, however, he seemed to have no specific attraction. He was just as content in Pike's company, for instance, as he had been in Tia's. He respected Admiral Himura as his superior just as much as he did Admiral Komack. He was neither uncomfortable nor confused when he knew he was in the presence of people who were transgendered, dual-gendered, non-gendered, or anything else the infinite variety of the universe had to offer. His discomfort on Space Station 17 had stemmed from experiencing a large amount of unwanted forcefulness, not the mere presence of diversity.

Therefore, in practice, he _had_ no attractive bias. Unusual for a Vulcan, but not unheard of. It was a natural and functional personality orientation.

But preference, now, that was different. He had never, to his knowledge, experienced physical preference.

Whatever there had been between him and T'Pring had been a twisted, malformed version of . . . something. What the feeling had been, he still was not sure. If he were honest with himself, the only thing he was certain of was that it had never been true preference.

His attraction to Lelia had only barely been more than a business relationship.

His crush on Tia had never even approached becoming physical.

His brief experience with Christine stayed in his mind only because it had revealed the nature of Human-to-Vulcan bonding to him.

Besides those four incidents, he knew more about Christopher's taste in alcohol than he did his own taste in women. He was still young, so such inexperience was not drastically unusual, but he was also much more well traveled than most Vulcans his age. It was fairly safe to assume he ought to have seen at least _one_ person that would fit his individual taste. Especially back on Space Station 17. . .

He blinked at himself, forcing his mind back on task.

That he had not ever experienced such a basic reaction had begun to concern him. It was even possible that by nature he _could_ not. Vulcan genetics were such that an individual's sexual orientation was highly predictable. He had never had a full genetic analysis, but the possibility existed that his Vulcan genes were asexual. Were he fully Vulcan, this would hardly be an issue. He would take a wife who had the same physical orientation, and let her live whatever life she chose on Vulcan, while he traveled with Starfleet. He could return to her when necessary. Such a prospect was rare for Vulcan marriages, but common enough that no one would question it. Simple.

But he was not fully Vulcan. Statistically speaking, the likelihood of his Human heritage _also_ including an asexual orientation was extremely low, given the Human species' particularly wide variance in regards to sexuality. And especially considering that Human sexual orientation was not entirely ruled by genetics. Even a full genomic write-up might not be able to tell him the scientific probabilities for his tastes. There was only one in his sample group, after all. He had been born into uncharted sands. As a result, he had to consider that, as a half-Vulcan/half-Human, quite possibly he could end up unmarried his entire life, merely moving from willing partner to willing partner as his Times dictated. If his Times ever came upon him, that is.

For some reason, such thoughts discouraged him. True, he had recently been attempting to convince himself that his Time would never come. He was in his twenty-fifth year - the earliest common year for a Time to befall a male - and he still felt no strong preference for any being he had ever met. In a normal, fully-Vulcan situation, it would be expected for him to at least have an _inkling_ of which physical and mental attributes he found most desirable in a potential mate. It would be so much easier if he had been spared the Curse, and did not need to continue the seemingly futile search.

But the idea of an unmoored life, forever free of a mating bond, should have seemed agreeable if he was truly asexual in the Vulcan sense, and it did not. Not at all.

Besides, he knew himself better than that by now. There _was_ something in him that wanted to be mated, body to body, mind to mind, _katra_ to _katra_. It was not that he felt no interest, it was simply that he had not felt any interest _yet_. At least, nothing that he recognized as such. He fully admitted that his dearth of practical knowledge could possibly be "muddying the waters" of the situation.

_But, surely, it is such a unique set of feelings, it would impossible to mistake them for anything else?_

But then, if his _father_ could successfully negotiate this labyrinthine problem, and with a person who was not even of the same species, then certainly, there existed at least a mathematical probability that he was capable of the same success.

 _No_ , he had finally decided, during one particularly dull alpha shift. _There is no cause for worry, only for more diligence._

The Human phrase was outmoded, but oddly specific to his predicament - he simply "had not found the right girl".

And then Rigel VII had happened, wiping all such considerations from his mind for a time.

He glanced briefly over at Tyanna. The small waiting room was designed to ease communication, with its soft color scheme and comfortable seating. But, what with the painful memories she must also be recalling at this moment, he did not think it wise to break the silence.

They had dropped off the colonists and their gear on Gestus VIII almost perfunctorily. Understandable, given what was waiting for them only one planet over. Upon their approach, he had felt the entire ship tense with anticipation. After so many weeks of unremarkable, routine happenings, a large away team set to make First Contact with a pre-warp civilization was not only fascinating, it was downright exciting. He had actually felt such anticipation himself. Logic had little to do with this, of course, but the prospect of some real exploration had touched a hidden spot in his mind. All at once he found himself reminded of _why_ he had joined Starfleet in the first place.

For such an historic mission, Pike had chosen a xenolinguist, two xenopologists, two archaeologists, his yeoman Kerrie, Spock, and eight security officers to accompany him to the surface. As one of only four fully commissioned Starfleet officers aboard, it was Pike's duty to go on the mission, even though as captain, he could have made a strong argument for staying on the bridge. But sending only cadets would have been gross negligence, and expecting Doctor Boyce, Nurse Hernandez, or Chief Engineer Parsons to lead the away team would have been unwise at the very least. Chris was the only one aboard who had enough experience with difficult away missions. . . and for that matter, difficult cadets.

As he had looked at the assembled team, Spock was compelled to admit that he was here with an exemplary set of young people, each quite capable of fulfilling their roles in this mission. So, as they beamed down, Spock had been unsure what the Captain wanted _him_ along for. Most of his expertise lay in areas other than First Contact, communications, and xenopology, and he was decidedly not a Security officer. Would he not have served better on the bridge just now? As First Officer in training, it would have been particularly logical for him to remain behind. He could not help wondering if Pike had made a mistake. . .

And then he had seen the native population. Their average height was 2.2 meters, their build muscular and surprisingly agile. Even at a distance, their features were hard and cruel. The holos during the briefing had accurately conveyed the primitive and harsh environment, but had failed to fully communicate the imposing nature of the natives. As six inch holograms, they looked merely barbaric. Up close they were. . . well. . . having an adept at _suus manha_ such as himself along was unquestionably a good idea. He stayed close to the Captain, ready to defend him from anything, from insects to large predators. . . but mostly from those large Neanderthalic people they were approaching. His senses seethed, on hair-trigger alert.

"Whole planet full of linebackers," Pike had murmured at him. He had instantly agreed, though he was sketchy on what a "linebacker" was supposed to be.

The native race was clearly intelligent, if not exactly friendly. The surroundings showed a medieval level of technology and sophistication. There were sturdy looking stone structures, and some obvious signs of more than subsistence agriculture. Moreover, they had invented the wheel, and a functional if basic form of metallurgy. The group they approached was standing around a cart filled with oddly twisted metal bars. Perhaps they were haggling or bargaining, or merely observing them, but whatever they were doing, even the women in the group held spears, knives and clubs. All of the men were mailed in an odd-looking crude combination of fur-leather and metal scale armor.

As soon as the away team had been spotted, two of the biggest natives came forward. They were both male, and both held wickedly sharp looking curved swords, and frighteningly large maces. A formidable greeting party. At this point, their primitive humanoid features were almost comforting, for their faces were at least readable. They were holding themselves cautiously, but their expressions were not overtly hostile, nor did such caution translate to immediate attack.

Pike, Spock, Kerrie, the xenolinguist Mick Harson, and four security officers slowly went to meet them. . .

Things went fairly well for a while. Harson managed to figure out an impressive amount of their language from just hearing them speak it, and in a very few minutes, he had discovered they called themselves "Kalar". He called Elsie MacEnna and J'hem Yelth - one each of the xenopologists and archaeologists - to join him. They and three security officers did so, ranging themselves around the first, and slightly smaller, of the two "welcoming" Kalar. Very quickly they began drawing crude shapes in the dirt, and two more of the Kalar came up and joined the now animated group. It appeared that simple functional communication would not be impossible.

Abe Kerrie, as the tallest and broadest of the away team members, also made an important connection. The other "greeting" Kalar had apparently sized him up as worthy, and slowly, he lowered his club-like weapon, swung it around his hand, and offered Kerrie the handle. The tall Human took it, but continued to hold it down, at a non-threatening angle. The Kalar seemed pleased. Then, Kerrie gestured to Myra Nielsen, one of the security officers. She reached into one of the large sacks they had brought, and offered the great brute a bolt of rough cotton cloth. He looked at her as if confused for a minute, then gingerly took the top edge of the roll. As he lifted, the bolt dropped, and the cloth unrolled all over the ground. Then the Kalar-man had smiled, and laughed, if one could call such baring of teeth a smile, or such a roar a laugh.

At this, Spock began to relax. This new and very green crew was behaving quite professionally. Pike was wandering slowly between the groups, safe for the moment. He allowed his attention to broaden, taking in the landscape and sky.

Rigel VI and its necklace of moons hung high in the sky, tinting the dome of the heavens amber-green where it ought to have been purple-blue. Gestus VIII was visible just beyond the curve of the glowing gas giant. Rigel VII's own moon was rising too - a flame of pink in the north sky, while Rigel itself was setting in the south. And there was Rigel III, Cashon itself, set in the center of it all, right at the apex of the sky, a bigger and brighter Star of Evening than Spock had ever seen.

They had landed in a hilly grasslands, not unlike the steppes of South America. However, the rock formations were far more like those found in northern Europe, and the visible architecture and clothing styles suggested ancient central Asia.

He had no Vulcan point of reference for what he was seeing, as nothing on his homeworld came close. The rocks here were blue or cool gray, the ground was damp, greened over with grass and moss and the mould of years of exposure to water. The sky held clouds, the air smelled of mist, and he could hear the nearby presence of a stream, or perhaps a small waterfall. The buildings were made of flat stones, stacked up and cemented with mud. The people were obviously carnivores and clothed themselves in animal skins.

The only empathic suggestion he could get out of everything was an impression of "cold". And it was the kind of cold that got into your bones and made you forget the long-ago summer. Practically the only thing that was similar to his home was the nearly total lack of trees.

Everything suggested a culture that had, geologically speaking, only recently come out of an ice age.

He shivered. If the information the scout drones had delivered was correct, then it was possible that the recent ice age had killed off a previous more highly developed civilization. There were stone ruins in many places all over the inhabited continent - most of them far more complex and sophisticated than these Kalar were yet capable of.

He shivered again. The sunset light was beginning to fade, leaving only the cool greenish light from Gestus to fill the sky. A niche in the wall of one the nearby straw-thatched houses still reflected a bit of the waning sunlight, promising a modicum of warmth. It was nearly twenty meters away from the animated group he was currently observing, but the lure of anything that could even slightly dispel the cold of this place was too much. He quickly made his way there, situating himself so he could still observe his shipmates and the dozen Kalar they were speaking with now.

From this vantage he also had a mostly unobstructed view into the small Kalar village.

Preliminary drone sightings had suggested this site as ideal for a First Contact mission, because it appeared to be one of the larger and more permanent of the small settlements on this world. It was also within half a kilometer of a large ruined castle-like structure - presumably the remnants from that previous sentient race. He could see the domed towers of it just above the ridge of hills beyond the village.

But the village itself. . .

The small cluster of houses were little more than rough cylinders of mud and stone, topped with layered cones of straw. In-between the houses, there were patches of cultivated land, and some houses had ditches dug around them, presumably for drainage, but many other signs indicated that this group of people were still mostly nomadic. Nearly all belongings seemed to be stored outdoors, for instance. Men, some women, and a few adolescents and children moved around the settlement, their actions making the use of many objects clear. They relied on tanned animal skins and clay-daubed woven rushes for most of their weatherproofing needs. Fires were never made indoors. Few things looked completely "unpacked", and most things gave the impression of being ready to leave at a moment's notice. Even the straw cones atop the houses looked removable.

But there was one thing among all this, a new thing, that was as permanent as things could get in a culture like this.

There was a long circular mound of earth that nearly filled the center of the tiny village. From his perspective it looked like a doughnut shaped ellipsis, almost a perfect oval. The lump of the mound looked to be about two and a half meters wide, and one tall, all the way around. The whole construction had to be more than ten meters across, and at least twenty long, leaving a flat space about fifteen by five meters empty in the middle. The surface was rough, unfinished, crudely heaped earth, but in a few places on the inside edge he could see piles of stones and rolled turves of grass, presumably to cover the structure. A short spear was planted in the top of the mound at either end.

They had done all this within the last three months. Why? Nothing in any of the stealth drone reports had indicated earth mounding was a part of Rigel VII's indigenous culture. Nothing remotely like it was in their mission briefing notes, and Chris hadn't mentioned it either.

He could only conclude that either the scout drones had missed it - a distinct possibility, but highly improbable under the circumstances - or that the Kalar had begun engaging in such activity only within the last three months - a coincidence of literally astronomical proportions if true.

He did not know if it was proper xenopological cultural analysis to do so, but he could not help himself from comparing it to the actions of the first indigenous Rigelians. Earth mounding had unquestionably been an important part of the Ca'shoi's early culture. He looked up at Rigel III again, glowing in the center of the sky. The mounds of earth that had been found on Cashon were usually also incorporated with highly developed stone carvings buried at very specific places within the mound. It was conjectured that the statues' burial patterns corresponded to ancient stellar positions, but not all archaeologists agreed on that point. What _was_ universally agreed upon was the cultural significance of the mounds. Some surrounded ancient high-profile tombs, some were clearly devotional, and some had uses that they, as modern investigators, could only guess at, but 78% of all their primitive indigenous cultures had centered around the practice. For the Ca'shoi, earth mounding was more important than standing stones were for Vulcan culture, or pyramids were for Human culture.

And now, here were earth mounds on Rigel VII.

Again, why?

A nebulous suspicion began to form in his mind.

At that moment, the light from Rigel faded completely, letting a heavy chill steal over him. At the same moment, dozens of torches were lighted, and most if not all of the villagers came out to see the visitors from the stars. It was clear that Harson had got _that_ concept across at least. Primeval cultures were usually taken aback by alien visitors, and the Kalar were no exception. But by now they had overcome it enough to cluster curiously around the cadets, and Harson in particular. From the looks of things, he was working on explaining personal names at the moment.

Anyone not involved in that discussion was intently focused on their own corner of the adventure. Hallie Kendal was being a good archaeologist and was examining the construction of the huts. Tyanna was the second xenopologist, and she was helping the two Andorian security officers, Shaasan and Thlacar, to shift those strange heavy metal bars from the pile in the cart. Or, at least the men were moving them, and she was valiantly trying to figure out their function. Lt. Lwelleth Mi'Ter and his half squad of security officers were squatting in a circle with a half dozen Kalar, introducing them to the intergalactic concept of betting on games of chance. Dice, by the look of it.

Only Pike seemed aware of the sudden growth of the party. He noticed the change in the light, turned around and looked at the congregation of torches, and smiled, as if it were exactly what he had been waiting for.

And probably it was, for their briefing _had_ included this common ritual carried out at sundown. The whole clan often assembled out in the open, and held some sort of conclave around one or two individuals. No one would talk or move except for that one or two in the middle of the gathering, and they would move wildly, gesticulating to the stars, chanting who knew what. The briefing had suggested that it was some kind of primitive storytelling ritual.

This event was why they had timed their beam-down for twilight. With any luck, _they_ would be the storytellers tonight. Chris quickly surveyed the group of cadets. Spock noticed an almost anxious set to his posture. He was looking for someone. . . It was clear who when he twisted around, found Spock, and waved at him to come over.

He nodded at the captain. This was the most dangerous and most essential moment. Pike wanted him nearby. He began to make his way back to his captain's side.

If he had been fully Human, Spock had no doubt he would have remembered little of the next five minutes. The shock and pain would have made his mind shut down around the memories, blocking them from being fully recalled. But his Vulcan brain recorded everything in excruciatingly indelible detail.

He was halfway to Chris when the Kalar attacked. The dozen raised clubs and battle roars came out of the silent torchlight, seemingly from nowhere. Spock saw them a split second before the rest of the cadets were aware, and he remembered shouting "Get down, everyone!" but even with perfect memory, the voice he had used sounded nothing like his own.

He saw the captain jump sideways, half in response, and half in shock, throwing his attacker off guard just enough that the blow missed him completely. Time slowed as the rest of the cadets scuffled around, some avoiding the blows aimed at them, some not. There were screams, and the sudden smell of blood, and then Spock was among them.

He tackled the one who had taken a swing at Chris, twisting the brute around so that when they fell to the ground, Spock landed with all his weight on the man's upper back. He felt something crunch loosely beneath his knee, and then his quarry was forgotten in the face of dozens more. A sword slashed across his chest and arm. Two clubs came near to knocking his head from his body. He dropped low and kicked sideways into a knee. There was a great roar as he saw the limb bend in the wrong direction. He grabbed up a battle mace, used it to parry away yet another club, and struggled to clear his mind and remember his training. His battle skills were largely untested, especially given that his specialty was the mainly defensive art of _suus manha_ , but as the captain was fond of saying, there was no time like the present.

He heard Harson's voice yelling for a beam up, and he saw several red and blue uniforms disappear before the need to fight distracted him.

He stunned three Kalar, breaking two necks that he was sure of. He smashed in a face, and kicked five more knees sideways, all the while clashing and crashing everywhere with the spiked mace. He stooped and yanked J'hem out from underneath a swinging battle axe, whirling the Telurian to safety. Before he got his balance again, he had to duck a phaser blast. Pike was standing over Kerrie's bleeding body, valiantly stunning every enemy who came near him. Nielsen had fired the shot he ducked - she had missed the Kalar female who was now running back into the settlement. Several more cadets disappeared into the mist of a transport beam. A few more stun blasts felled one last fleeing Kalar.

The crowd had dispersed as quickly as it had assembled. Spock fought to calm his mind from the battle fury that had come over him. Slowly, he unclenched his hold on the mace. He took an unsteady breath, and turned around.

The torches gone, the chill greenish light of Gestus shone down on a sorry scene.

Helmets, phasers, bags of erstwhile gifts, maces, swords, and various torn and bloodied pieces of clothing littered what had once been a place of communication and hope. There were eighteen Kalar spread around the field of battle, dead, dying or stunned.

Then, J'hem, Lt. Mi'ter and Tyanna were beamed up, along with every bit of tech that scanned as Starfleet, leaving Nielsen, Pike, Kerrie and Spock on site. . . without phasers.

Chris looked at Spock, frantically whispering, "Why didn't we beam up?"

Myra answered. "Looks like we four lost our comms., so the instant pattern recog didn't take. . . and there they just went, so no point in trying to find them now. We'd better get under cover - those brutes'll be back in a minute. . ."

Spock did not contradict her. "It would be wise to distance ourselves from any Kalar bio-signals in any case, Captain. Without our communicators, the _Carrington_ will have to scan for our patterns."

"And that will take a few minutes with Dunning on the bridge." Pike nodded, then tore off one of his sleeves to wrap it around the long gash on his left arm. He winced as it tightened. "Okay. Myra, you take point. Spock, you'll have to lug Kerrie, I'm afraid. I'll take flank."

"Where to sir?" asked Myra, her jaw set and ready.

"To that fortress over there, double time."

It was a long six minutes to the old ruined castle, with Nielsen favoring a twisted ankle, Pike limping from a heavy bruise to the thigh and probably a dislocated hip, and all of this while Kerrie's blood soaked into the back of Spock's uniform. He'd been forced to lift the big man by pulling his arms over his own shoulders and balancing him draped over his back. He was at least two hundred pounds of dead weight. Even Spock's super-Human strength staggered under it. Plus, Kerrie hadn't made a sound during the whole uncomfortable process, and Spock very much feared for the man's life. Especially with the sticky iron-scented lifeblood now running down his back and sides. . .

When they arrived, Spock rolled him to the ground as gently as he could. On examination, he found Kerrie's pulse very thready and weak. He removed his own tunic, wadding it into the worst of the gaping wounds in Kerrie's abdomen, trying to staunch the flow of red. The yeoman had taken at least two stabs right in the stomach, and another which had probably punctured a lung.

He raised his mental shields, fought back a suddenly intense need to vomit, and placed two fingers at Kerrie's jugular again. The beat had weakened even further.

"Any good?" asked Pike, brandishing a sword and spear from a cache he had found in the small courtyard where they were sheltering.

"I doubt it sir."

"Well, you both were real troopers back there, I must say. You too Nielsen."

"Thank you sir," said Myra. Then she looked up at the stars impatiently. "What _is_ that Dunning up to?"

Pike huffed, but half-heartedly. "Thing you have to understand about Jack is that he's very deliberate and thorough. It's what makes him effective - he _does_ deserve to be a commander one day - it just makes him slow too. He'll work through it eventually."

Myra scoffed. "Just so long as he gets us through this _now_. I'll be as patient as he wants _tomorrow_."

Kerrie's heart chose that moment to stop.

"Myra!" called Spock, urgently. "I need you to hold this pressure bandage while I perform CPR."

"Got it!" she answered, and rushed to his aid.

He had just begun his attempt to get Kerrie's heart beating again when the castle's rotted portcullis was crushed into flinders by a very big and very angry Kalar. His roar of attack carried a ferocious, vengeful quality. Pike's own answering roar matched it in intensity. Spock had never heard such a sound from Chris before. He heard metal strike metal, and weapons strike armor and flesh, but he could not look up from his task to watch. There were more yells, and roars, and then a terrible inhuman screech and a gurgle. Ironically, the Kalar's death came just at the moment when Spock lost all hope of saving Kerrie's life. . .

And then a transporter beam took them back to the _Carrington_ , at last.

The four of them had been transported directly to sickbay. Boyce immediately pushed him away from Kerrie, giving himself and two nurses room to do their job.

Spock backed away willingly, knowing all too well that it was probably hopeless. He looked down at his hands. They were smeared a rusty red. His chest and arm were crusted with the green of his own blood, and he could feel the dried evidence of Kerrie's death all over his back. There were many ugly dark green bruise marks all over his torso, as well.

Strange, he had not noticed them until now. . .

The sound and bustle of nurses and aides faded from his ears. The urgent call of patients and the beeping of instruments made no impression. He watched Boyce's mouth move, but heard none of the words.

He fled sickbay.

His First Officer's quarters had a water shower. He did not often use it, but that day it had felt entirely necessary.

He looked down at his hands now. He was impeccably clean, as usual, but the memory of the violence and blood was not dimmed. It had only been a week. A week since three of his fellow cadets had died. A week since that violence and blood had intruded on the optimism and hope inherent in their mission.

Tyanna sighed, looking up from her magazine. "What's taking Boyce so long? They didn't look like they were that bad."

He looked up. "Thlacar has a concussion, and Neil sustained a compound fracture of the femur. The treatments for those injuries is time consuming."

"I know," she giggled, "But Boyce was so insistent I hurry up here. . ."

"I believe that is 'just his way'."

"He hassled you too, huh?" she smiled, shrugged when he did not answer, and turned back to her reading.

He had managed to put off going back to sickbay for four days after Rigel VII. The _Carrington_ had reported back to Gestus VIII, where most of the cadets proceeded to sign up for the shifts to beam down in aid of establishing the colony. The terror of what had happened on Rigel VII had spread like wildfire throughout the ship - nearly all the cadets were scared and jumpy, all eager for time planetside on the new colony world, where there were no huge violent natives, and the largest predator was a seven centimeter long mouse-like creature that only ate insects.

It was easy for him to avoid contact with his superiors, _and_ maintain his bridge routine in such a half-empty ship.

When Boyce and Pike finally discovered this, they were aggravated to no end.

He argued that he had not wasted the time. It was his week to be the gamma shift Commander on deck, after all. And during his off hours, besides his mild injuries giving him an excellent opportunity to practice basic first aid on himself, he had written his report, spent many hours meditating, called Amanda (which, he pointed out, Chris was virtually certain to require he do anyway), and also managed to serve all his bridge hours for those four days.

Neither man was impressed.

Boyce had speculated on the probabilities of septicemia and blood poisoning, or unnoticed hairline cracks in bones.

He had been insistent that his wounds were not serious enough to warrent professional attention.

Both men pleaded superiority of rank.

He cited Starfleet's privacy policy.

Then, Pike had made it an order. Boyce had seconded it.

Reluctantly, he had agreed to a checkup.

Pike had tried to cheer him up.

"I've read your report, but there's a lot of questions I want to ask you about it, and there's also several things I need to tell you. So I'll come with you to sickbay. . . if you think my chatter will calm your nerves."

"Vulcans do not get "nerves", Captain."

"Huh," barked the doctor. "Could've fooled me."

Chris, ignoring Boyce, preceded them all into the lift, and began to tell Spock the results of their "historic" First Contact mission.

Their losses were significant. Yeoman Kerrie and Lt. Mi'Ter were dead on arrival. Hallie Kendal died two hours later, on the operating table. She had taken a direct hit from a battle axe, full in the chest. The damage and trauma were too much. Harson had nearly died as well, with eight broken bones, a punctured kidney, and a severe concussion. Six more were injured seriously, but not critically. Most had a nasty cut or two, and no one had gotten off without bruises.

The hoverlift dinged and let them out next to sickbay.

"May I ask why you are telling me all this, Captain?"

Chris looked mildly surprised. "If you're going to be an effective First Officer - or even if you end up settling for Second Officer or something - you're going to need to get used to hearing this kind of stuff. So pay attention."

"I am incapable of forget-"

"Shush. Just listen."

Continuing, Pike said he had put all of the fifteen cadet's names up for citations for bravery. He had also recommended Kerrie, Kendal and Mi'Ter for posthumous promotion to fully commissioned Lt. Commander. Their families would receive greater recompense benefits that way.

If Harson or any of the other seriously wounded cadets wanted to leave Starfleet after their recovery, they would be honorably discharged as full Lieutenants, no questions asked.

Shassan Wutay would receive a field promotion to replace Lieutenant Mi'Ter.

Jen Colt would be the new yeoman.

Spock half raised an eyebrow. "A female yeoman, Captain?"

Pike sighed. "Yes, well. It isn't my preference. I don't like having a member of the opposite sex around that I've got perfectly plausible excuses to be alone with for hours at a time. Frankly, it sends the wrong impression. I know too well that people make assumptions. Added to which, even a consensual relationship would be messy in the extreme, and I can guarantee you the first thing folks would assume was going on would _not_ be consensual _or_ a relationship. If avoiding all that means holding back highly-qualified women from this one position, well, I figure that's a price I'm willing to pay."

"But?"

"But, Colt is the _only_ fully qualified cadet on the ship, and I refuse to promote someone who doesn't deserve it just to serve my own image preferences."

Boyce sat Spock down for a full bio-scan.

"So tell me," said Pike, changing the subject, "What was it about the Kalar village that made you suspicious? Your report said it did, but you were very vague on that point."

"At the time, my suspicions were very vague. In fact, they are hardly less vague now. I have a set of logically deduced assumptions, nothing more."

"Well, let's hear 'em then."

"Yes sir." The instruments surrounding him beeped and whirred, making it significantly more difficult to properly gather his thoughts. He paused several seconds, in a effort to be clear about a subject that he was, admittedly, still unclear upon himself.

"Practically the only thing _of fact_ that we should have known previously is that the earth mound I observed was not a new invention. I went back and re-watched the drone scans of the five possible settlements we had to select from. We chose the settlement we did because it was the largest, correct?"

Pike nodded. "That was one of the main criteria, yes."

"I believe that was the reason we were attacked."

Chris looked confused. "What? Run that past me again - the long version this time."

Spock nodded shortly. "It is my conjecture that the ritual we assumed was a storytelling rite probably _was_ , but its purpose escaped us. Our sample size was only eight instances, after all - nine now. The drones observed the phenomenon only once at every other location, and four times at the settlement we chose. However, it is apparent no one correlated the ritual with each settlement's topography. If the geographic scans are accurate, then four of the villages have an oblong ring of circular scars in the earth at the center of them. Ours is the only one that did not."

"Yet, you mean?"

"Exactly, sir. The briefing suggested they were the remnants of a previous set of stone houses. I think this was erroneous. It is my belief that they are graves."

Christopher's eyebrows rose.

"I believe that what I saw was not earth mounding, but the preparations for a mass burial."

Boyce looked up, his face grave and disapproving. "How do you figure that?" He gestured at Spock's tunic.

He took off his uniform top and undershirt, exposing the half-healed scars of battle. "The storytelling ritual is the key. Begin with the assumption that it is _only_ a storytelling ritual, and you make the mistake we made. Add in the fact of mass graves, understand that this is taking place in a barely post-ice-age culture, and it all becomes clear, does it not?"

"Not to me, it doesn't," grumbled Boyce, and even Chris looked as though he agreed.

"Your pardon, Doctor. I mean to say that at this point in the Kalar's cultural development, it would be ecologically prudent to keep the population to a minimum, would it not?"

"I suppose."

"I posit that this puts an entirely different spin on the storytelling ritual. The one or two "storytellers" in the center of the crowd are not merely telling stories, they are _making a case for their continued existence_."

Boyce clenched his jaw, punching some stats into his scanner. "That's terrible."

Pike shook his head and leaned on the adjacent biobed, sighing with what Spock hoped was understanding.

"Makes perfect sense, actually. The colder environment means there's only so much food to go around. They invent a method so that everyone can have a turn to prove their worth to the tribe. Those who do are supported by the community. Those who don't are killed and ritually buried. They probably have a whole religion centered around the practice, and we just touched on the edges of it. We merely happened to do so in the worst way possible, from our perspective."

"Precisely. And did you notice that those they attacked first were the ones who were doing the least speaking? You sir, and Kerrie, Kendal, and Antoniou. St. John was outside the main group, but I met with several of the involved cadets for lunch yesterday, and Shassan told me that when the Kalar came at them, they swung at her first. He and Thlacar were doing a good deal of talking, but she hardly made any noise at all, and was focused on those metal bars in the cart. In an effort to spare her, Thla jumped in front of the attack. That was how he received his concussion. A similar thing happened to MacEnna - she took five broken ribs to protect Yelth. In each case, they attacked the ones making the least effective arguments for survival."

"Yeah, and what about Harson? Or poor Lwelleth?" Boyce crossed his arms. "You aren't going to tell me _they_ weren't doing enough talking?"

"No Doctor, but they were attacked after we began our defense. Their heavier injuries were the result of their placement in the group during the battle. They were both in the worst possible positions for defense. Harson was standing surrounded by Kalar at the moment of attack, and Mi'Ter was _sitting_ in the middle of his group."

He put his tunic back on, despite Boyce's scowls.

The captain looked thoughtful. "So, we interrupt a mass execution ritual, only to get ourselves almost ritually killed _en masse_ , eh?"

"I believe that is "about the size of it", Captain. At least, I can think of no other answer that adequately encompasses all the facts."

"Makes good sense, and could very well be the answer. I'll put the xenopologists onto it. Thanks for helping me understand it all, kid." Pike punched him lightly on the shoulder, then looked at him very seriously. "Now then. Are you all right with the killing you did?"

Spock allowed himself a small sigh. "It is considered acceptable to fight in defense of oneself. However, in defense of one's family, it is _expected_. In either case, the logic is sound." He lowered his voice. "That does not mean I enjoyed it, or that I ever wish to do it again. . ."

Chris gave him a look so full of Human emotions he had trouble interpreting it. "But, this is Starfleet, so it's entirely likely that you will."

"I am aware of that, sir."

"If you ever need to talk, okay?"

Spock nodded, slowly.

"Well," said Boyce, "You are indeed on the mend. No hidden breaks, and no infection."

Spock raised an eyebrow, trying to say "I told you so" without having to actually use the words.

"But I'm confining you to quarters for three days, regardless." The doctor held up a hand to ward off any protests. "Not just for your physical health, but to give you time to mentally work through. . . " he gestured between Spock and Pike, ". . . the heavier parts of what we were just talking about. You need _rest_ , Spock. And while I'm on watch, you're going to get it. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir."

And now, here they were, three days later, his wounds healing nicely, but his mental state still inexplicably shaky, as if the shock of Rigel VII had not yet been fully released from his mind. Not to mention that the general emotional "vibe" from everyone around him was still extremely precarious. Not surprising that he was highly uncomfortable in anyone's company, just at the moment.

Except for Tyanna, oddly.

She went on calmly reading during all these remembrances, just as if she were unaware of his fluctuating emotional state. Which she could be, he supposed. She was highly conscientious about her telepathy. But he had no doubt he had been projecting rather strongly several times in the last half-hour, and still she just sat, calmly perusing her magazine.

He was working up the courage to ask her what her telepathy had told her during the attack, when Neil and Thlacar finally exited sickbay, and Nurse Sato called him and St. John in.

Commander Phillip Boyce, MD, known affectionately as "Hill" by his friends, was not happy as he escorted them to two adjacent biobeds. He grumbled at three successive bioscan wands, and actually kicked some other large piece of machinery.

"Yesterday it was the medical replicator, and today it's the scanners. Two days ago the biobeds were on the fritz, and two weeks ago the sterilizer decided to dissolve whole instruments. Everything is breaking left and right on this arthritic old crate."

"Including the cadets, doctor?" said Tyanna, wryly.

Boyce relented with a smirk. "No, the cadets are going to be fine. How are you feeling, St. John?"

"Better sir. Except my arm still aches." She winced as she took off the brace.

"The treatment today should help with that. Spock?"

"Yes sir?"

Boyce huffed in frustration. "How are you _feeling_?"

"Physically or emotionally?"

The doctor's jaw dropped a little. "You mean you admit to having emotions?"

Spock allowed himself a modicum of frustration. "Of course I do. Every Vulcan does. We have simply learned to strictly control them to the extent that we do not express them."

"That sounds like it's anything but simple." The doctor's lip twisted. "I meant physically."

"It is not simple. It is extremely difficult and complex. However, the concept is fairly simple." Spock gave a light sigh. "Physically I am as well as can be expected after spending three days confined to my quarters. I feel the absence of my exercise routine, and I have a distinct wish for some non-replicated food."

"Mmph. Good, good." Boyce mumbled as he tapped baseline information into the bioscan wand he held. As soon as he began scanning, the large machine in the corner started beeping. Boyce strode over to it, cursing, and kicked it again, before rolling it to the middle of the room. It was revealed to be a medical grade diagnostics unit.

"Damn Archer!"

Spock made eye contact with Tyanna. She was just as mystified as he.

"Doctor," he said, tentatively, "You have. . . _nicknamed_ your DMG machine?"

Boyce barked a laugh. "HA! No, I meant Admiral Archer, one of the architects of the Federation - you know? The one in all the history books?" He gestured vaguely, punching buttons on the machine.

"Yeeeees," said Tyanna, slowly, "We know of him. But. . . what does he. . . how. . . I mean. . . what?" She trailed off.

"Well, this is all his fault." The doctor put the scanner wand into the full-diagnostic slot, and murmured something about it "better actually tell me what's wrong with this one" or some such similar threat that the non-engineering-inclined used with computers. Then he finally looked up and saw the blankly confused looks on his patients' faces.

"If he hadn't insisted on that stupid provision in the Global Governance Treaties, we'd be on board the _Enterprise_ right now, and none of this would be a problem."

"Ah," said Spock, comprehending.

"Ummmm," said Tyanna, "I'm afraid I still don't understand. . ."

Boyce gave a sardonic grin, grabbed another scanner wand from the shelf, and came over to give her the injections she needed and see how her bone-strengthening exercises were coming.

He explained as he did so. "You remember Archer was one of the negotiators for Earth's first global government? Well, when all the treaties were being written up, he put in this clause that America had exclusive rights to build warp engines. Make a fist." He put a Flexor construct in her hand. "Since the things are notoriously difficult to transport until they're actually inside a ship, that meant essentially all capital ships had to be built on U.S. soil."

"Until the space stations."

"Exactly. Let go now." He took the device away and looked at the readout. "Excellent. Keep doing the tension exercises, but up your reps to 30 a day. It only took one generation for us to realize that warp-capable spaceships of any significant size should be built already in space. It's cheaper, cleaner, and just better all around." He gave her two injections at the site of the break. "If you do those exercises St. John, and take your rosehip supplements, you'll be better in no time. Here's a hypo for the pain." He handed her a prescription card so the replicator in her quarters could make the drug she needed. Then the doctor came over to Spock. "But the problem is, those same treaties state that no one nation can own any space station. It's Terran law - no private individual, no corporation, and no nation can own a stationary artificial construct in the Sol system. Any station must belong to the world government, and the collective Human race. Of course, any ship built up there has to have its warp engine built on site too, and that means the engines can't possibly be of American make."

"Oh. I think I see now. But what does this have to do with the _Enterprise_?"

Boyce gestured for Spock to take off his tunic. Spock nodded, briefly, and complied before taking up the narrative. "After several re-negotiations over the years, most ships can be built at Utopia Planetia, but Starfleet's flagship still belonged to whichever North American shipwright company could outbid the rest for it. Nearly four years ago, there was another challenge to the treaty - and it must be admitted that it is an outdated document in every respect - and the case ended up in global court. Work was halted until six months ago - far too late for this year's graduating cadets to take her on their senior's mission." Spock paused to let the doctor take a blood sample. "That is why we had to settle for much older ships and equipment."

"And older doctors into the bargain." Boyce smirked. "But it's all for the best, I suppose. America won the suit, but for the last time - the next flagship and all subsequent capital ships will be built out in space - where they belong."

"Won't that put some ground-based shipwrights out of work?" Tyanna put her brace back on, and hopped off the biobed.

"Oh no. They only got to build a flagship once every ten years or so anyway. No business relied on it. Warp capable shuttles are still built planetside - always were. No no - they'll just go back to their usual jobs. Production might even go up, now that everyone has to go to Mars to see the ships they're going to serve on. You've got a clean bill of health Spock - and you're back on active duty as of now."

"Thank you sir."

"Don't thank me, thank the captain. He's been pulling your shifts."

"I shall do so. I intend upon visiting him as soon as we are finished here."

Boyce raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really? Well, put it off for an hour or two, would you?"

"Doctor?"

Boyce scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, he's the last checkup I need to do today. Cadets have to come to me, but for Chris I make a housecall. Otherwise I'd never see him. He's not just the captain - he's also a terrible patient." He winked at Tyanna.

"Perfect," she said. "That means you can take me on a nice walk through the arboretum." She linked her good arm through one of Spock's.

He suppressed a start. "I can?"

The doctor laughed. "Now there's an appealing prospect. You'd better say yes, cadet - I want to know that at least one of us is having a good day."

He was still confused, but he slowly nodded. "Very well. Yes."

Boyce picked up a large medical pack, and shooed them out of sickbay. "Excellent."

Spock was not exactly sure he agreed, but he put his head down, and left sickbay, Tyanna still on his arm.

* * *

Chris decided not to turn off the lights.

He was tired, having been awake for forty-two of the last forty-eight hours. So tired, in fact, that he felt like he could sleep straight through to his next shift, right here on top of the covers of his bunk, regardless of the fact that he had forgotten to turn the light off.

He didn't even feel like telling the computer to do it.

Coordinating a Senior's Mission with a colonization mission AND a disastrous First Contact mission was _far_ more work than it appeared. And it appeared to be a lot.

_Why did I ever take this job?_

He wanted a shower. And a drink. And some food.

But mostly, he wanted to sleep.

_Sleep, sleep, sleeee. . . . . ._

And then, of course, his door chimed.

"If you aren't a gorgeous curvy blond at least three years over the age of consent and determined to teach me whole new ways to be comfortable, go away."

The door beeped its override signal, and Boyce walked in.

He groaned sleepily. "Oh. It's you. Go away, Hill."

"Captain, the disappointment in your voice is hardly called for. I am well over the age of consent, and while I admit I'm not particularly curvy, I _used_ to be a gorgeous blond. You're man enough to ignore some grey. And I brought you some nice comfortable medicine. That ought to count for a _little_ , no?"

"I don't need a checkup," he huffed weakly, but watched from under heavy lids as his friend unpacked the absurdly large medkit he had brought. There was a clink and a fizz, and then a splash, and then Boyce was holding something out to him.

"What is it?" he muttered thickly.

"Rum, lime, ice, and a tablet of B-vitamins for good measure. Sometimes I wish I'd become a bartender and not a doctor."

"Mmmmmphh."

Chris sat up, very reluctantly, and took the drink.

"What's up, Doc?"

"Not much, Christopher Robin. Just the usual antics in the Hundred Acre Wood."

Chris smiled at their old joke. "Seriously Hill - how is everyone?"

"Well, I'd say they're all doing surprisingly well for what they've been through. And _I'm_ doing surprisingly well with a sickbay that seems to think every day is a perfect day to break down. I'm just glad everything was working the one day we absolutely needed it to."

"Any communication from Kendal, Mi'Ter and Kerrie's families?"

"Other than they all got your notes of condolence? Not that I've heard. It's soon yet for most arrangements though - especially for Mi'Ter. Fendarans traditionally go through an elaborate embalming ritual and then let their dead lie in state for months before burial. Us keeping him in a stasis pod for a few months is almost traditional."

Pike nodded. "How are Harson and MacEnna?"

"In pain. But they'll be alright." Phil paused, and then went on quietly, "After the colony here gets well established, I think everyone deserves a bit of downtime."

"Oh, they'll get it. Talos isn't too far, and it's only seven weeks surveying. Nice 'n easy. Then it's home in time for Valentine's Day."

"But that's what I mean, Chris. Maybe we ought to skip Talos."

"But, why?"

"I was thinking we should go to Vega."

"But. . . You can't mean waiting another two months? You mean go now, don't you?"

Boyce nodded, slowly.

"That would take nearly a week, one way! And we can't leave the colony right now, they've just started on the generators. They need us for power and clean water. If we leave, we could endanger the whole operation. There isn't another ship for a hundred lightyears that can do it, either. Starfleet is spread pretty thin in this sector. The colony _needs_ us, Hill. And anyway, what would we do on Vega that we can't do here?"

"Well, get some good experienced officers to replace the cadets we lost, for one thing. We could get the sick and injured into a real hospital for another. It's the ones with broken bones I'm mainly thinking of. Several cadets sustained multiple compound fractures, and the bone re-gen machine we've got here is an old creaky thing better suited to tiny lab rat bones than Human ribs and femurs. It does the job, just slowly. Vega is the nearest colony with an up-to-date model."

"How long would treatment take, if we went?"

"Depends. Two weeks, maybe more."

"So, you want us to leave a brand-new colony for at least a month, during its critical first two months establishment, and then after that, slink off home without finishing what we came out here to do?"

"I just think the cadets have had enough, Chris. Rigel VII shocked them a lot deeper than expected."

"Which is exactly the point! Starfleet isn't a kindergarten playground. Serious things happen every day, and they have to learn that you can't prepare for everything. A good section of this class is likely to end up on the _Enterprise_ , you know. Every one of us has had to get used to missions deviating from the plan in thoroughly unexpected ways. They have to go though whatever space throws at them - it's what will turn them into officers. It's the _whole_ point."

Boyce poured himself a rum cocktail before answering. "And here I was thinking that the point of a Senior's mission was to make sure a class of cadets all graduated together."

"It is. Which is another reason for them to finish their mission."

"I meant graduate _alive_."

"Christ, Hill, you think that isn't my _priority_?" He briefly considered throwing his still untouched drink in Phillip's face.

"Of course it is. But do _they_ think that, is the question."

Chris sighed, finally taking a sip of rum. "You're right, of course. I'm just tired."

"You do need some sleep. . ."

"No, not tired like that." He laughed a cold little laugh. "Well, yes, I am tired like that, but that's not what I meant." He stirred the drink with a fingertip. "I'm just tired of it all, Hill. Tired of leading kids into danger and not having them all come out again. Tired of promising them their dreams out here and then watching this damn frontier take those dreams away. I'm tired of being the one to make all the decisions, take all the glory. . . and shoulder all the blame. Who's going to remember Kerrie, or Kendal, eh? Besides their families, and me, you, and probably Spock, no one. But everyone will remember Pike, oh yes - he's the one who took out all those cadets year after year, and he brought most of them back alive. Mostly." He sighed. "I'm just tired of it, Hill. I'm tired of leading kids. I'm getting them killed."

"That's true." Hill's voice was absolutely even.

"What?!"

"Well, it is. And what is more, you _knew_ that when you signed up for this job. You can't tell me you didn't know injury and death were possibilities. This is hardly your first shakedown. It isn't mine either - and if I know one thing it's that the universe doesn't _care_ if you're young and full of dreams, or old, boring and stupid. Whether you're nice or disagreeable, or male or female or whatever, _the universe doesn't care_. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter if you have a good captain who gives a rat's patoot about you or not. Shit _happens_. And you _know_ that."

Chris sighed deeply. "Yeah. I do."

"And anyway, what would you do planetside? Breed mustangs? Keep bees? Grow orchids?"

"Who said anything about staying planetside?" he smirked.

"Ha! Even worse," laughed Boyce, "What would you do with a civ starship? Captain a supply boat? Drive a garbage scow? Run the Earth-to-Mars shuttlebus service? Or would you join the Andorian underground? Or smuggle slaves for the Orion pirate guild?"

"Hey, I could do any of those. You know, options." But his voice lacked conviction, and they both knew it.

Hill shook his head, obviously picking up on the defeatist sarcasm in his friend's voice. "No, you couldn't. You're Starfleet to the bone, Chris - you couldn't do anything else. It's not a strike against you - honest it isn't - but it does leave you with only two options."

"Which are?"

"Buck up and do your job, or retire and stop."

"Pshh, be fair, Boyce. That's like asking me to choose life or choose death. It's not a real choice at all."

"No, it isn't. But if you don't choose, you still choose, you follow?"

In response, Chris finished his drink in one gulp.

Hill continued, relentlessly. "Okay, let me ask you this then. Who would replace you?"

He stared sullenly at his glass, then held it out for a refill. "I was hoping for Spock."

Boyce shook his head as he took it. "It won't happen. Much as they want to promote him, and much as he frankly deserves the position, High Command isn't going to hand over the flagship to a kid with no experience captaining a Starfleet vessel. Even if they gave him a command right now and sent him to the Neutral Zone for the three years until the _Enterprise_ is activated, they wouldn't consider him anywhere near ready for it. Science Officer? Absolutely. First Officer? Wouldn't surprise me. But not Captain - not a chance."

Chris harrumphed. "You sure?"

"Absolutely. If you retire now, the _Enterprise_ would probably be offered to Navarro first, and he would most likely turn it down. He hasn't been on active duty for six years - my guess is he's had his fill of space. If he does refuse, it would be offered to Hansdotter, and she just made Commodore last month, so I can't see her taking the required demotion to Captain. After that, it would most likely be Dass, and he would jump at the opportunity. On the outside chance he turns it down, the next in line is Mel Ky'Barra. Her record isn't the greatest, but after nearly six years patrolling the Neutral Zone that's almost to be expected. She's earned a shot at the big chair. After her, they'll consider Mattie Bell, Henry Saxen, or Saja Col'Equ-I before they think of Spock. I will give 'em props - it's _not_ because he's non-Human - he just isn't on the list, and he won't be for years. It's a shame, really, but right now he isn't even on High Command's long-range sensors." He dropped ice into the replenished glass.

"Hill, I'm surprised at you." The cubes clinked as he took the fresh cocktail. "Political analysis? And here I thought you hated politics."

"Being aware of a political situation is a long chalk from liking it."

Chris half-grinned, sarcasm and bitterness warring for a place in his voice. "So, you think I shouldn't retire?"

"I think you should do what is best for everyone - not just what is best for you."

"Phil, I'm old enough to be the father of most of these kids. They're my children, my _family_. Is wanting to stop watching them die around me all that shocking?"

"It isn't shocking at all, my friend. I just want to see you make the right choice for the right reasons. That's all."

"Oh, that's all, is it? Fine then. We'll go to Talos, and finish our mission. The kids need it, even if I don't."

Hill nodded, solemnly, "Very well. That's why you're the Captain, and I'm the medical officer."

"Damn right."

Phillip began to put open bottles and half-squeezed limes back into the "medical" bag he had brought.

"Is there _any_ real medicine in that thing?" Chris smirked.

"The bottle of single malt scotch is offended at the very suggestion it might not be."

"That's what I thought." Chris drained his glass and gave it back to the doctor. "Are you ever going to give me a checkup or not?"

Boyce smiled. "This was the checkup. Not all wounds are physical. As I am certain you are aware."

"Hmmm," Chris mumbled, "And did I pass?"

"Well, as a very wise man once said, 'Get busy living, or get busy dying.'"

"If I knew who that wise man was, I'd kick him in the shins."

"Very good sir."

The sudden formality of Boyce's tone abruptly ended the conversation.

"Get some sleep, Captain."

"Yeah. Sure thing, Doc." He toed off his shoes, and rolled under the covers at last. "Oh, by the way, Hill, you're a terrible bartender."

"That's music to my ears, sir. Have a good sleep. And don't worry about your next shift. Spock is certified fit for duty - we'll cover for you."

"Mmmm."

Chris was deeply asleep before Boyce walked out the door.

* * *

He was alone in the arboretum with a beautiful woman.

No matter how insistently, she _had_ asked him to be there, and, for some reason, he found he wanted to be there.

Spock did not know whether to be shocked, wary, scared or flattered. It was too soon to tell.

She had let go of his arm, and removed her shoes. Now she was walking slowly through the meticulously tended rows of the _Carrington_ 's onboard garden. She approached a Folnar jewel plant, gently touching the flower bud that held the ripening jewel. The superfluous resin on the plant's exterior glittered, and picked up the sheen of the red and silver spangles on the traditional Betazoid dress she wore. Its rich drapings accentuated all her natural charms without flaunting anything. It made her look incredibly alive. Then, she looked at him and smiled, her posture and the flower and the subdued lighting in the room making her look momentraily like a Hindu goddess.

Behind his Vulcan calm, his mind was stunned. How could such a woman be interested in him?

He knew the current beauty standard for females in most humanoid cultures was "tall and slender" - and Tyanna was neither. Nevertheless, he found her quite. . . shapely. . . and her less-than-average height was appealing in a way he could not describe. Also, her great mane of light red curls was at odds with her incredibly black, almond-shaped eyes, and deeply tanned olive skin - a combination that only very rarely happened naturally with Human DNA, and was impossible for Vulcan DNA at all. In fact, it was almost unheard of with Betazoid DNA. Only .0003 percent of Betazoids were born with enough pheomelanin to give a red tint to their hair. Added together with her slightly offbeat body language, it was clear at a glance that she was not Human.

A very light touch from her brilliantly awake mind proved it. Red hair aside, she was Betazoid, through and through.

Somehow, all of this made her the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he had ever had the privilege to stand next to. He instinctively kept his place by her side as they walked.

It was comradeship, nothing more.

Had to be.

_Nevertheless, she is fascinating. . ._

She stopped next to the Singing Nettle bush from Mongdor IX, gently tapped the petals of the largest bloom, and smiled as a melody like tiny bells rang out. Then she turned to him.

"It's pretty well known, Spock, that you are half-Human."

This was the last thing he had expected her to say. He fell back on his catch-all response.

"Indeed."

She smiled, clearly picking up his projection of surprise. "I'm sorry, that was blunt. I mean to say, you are well known to be much more complex than just a famous son of two famous people - you are quite literally a child of two worlds. I. . . want to talk to you about that."

Her mind reached out again, very gently testing the surface of his thoughts. The touch was gentle and benevolent.

He dropped his outermost shields, allowing her in a little. "Very well. May I ask why?"

"Because. . ." her voice lowered so much even his Vulcan hearing had to strain to pick it up, "I am also a hybrid."

He blinked. "Indeed?"

"Yes, my father's father was Human."

Her red hair suddenly made sense. "Fascinating. I would not have guessed."

"You never wondered where my English surname came from?"

"I assumed it was an anglicized Betazoid name. Such things are common among those who join Starfleet."

"True. . . Um. . ."

"Yes?"

"Look, let's change the subject."

He felt surprise again, as she was the one who had raised the subject. "If you wish. . ." Her mind-touch vanished as her consciouness retreated.

In contrast, she stepped closer to him, slipping her good arm through the crook of his elbow again. "You know that _everyone_ on this ship is going to be _so_ jealous of me tonight, right? I got to go on a lovely walk through the arboretum with _Spock_ of all people."

"Our shipmates do seem. . . somewhat preoccupied with me."

She gave a lopsided smile. "THAT'S the understatement of the year. Half of them seem to think you're some kind of eunuch or monk or something, and the other half think you're probably gay but scared to admit it for some reason, and - strangest of all - about half of each group think you're also secretly a super-kinky ultra-experienced sex god."

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. "How is that possible?"

"Beats me. The phrase they use is "it's always the quiet ones" and, well, I just have a hard time believing that."

"Agreed. Furthermore, I have personal, empirical evidence to the contrary."

She laughed. "Humans are weird, sometimes. And non-Humans can be even stranger."

"Indeed." He pondered her revelation. "May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Am I supposed to find their assumptions amusing or insulting?"

She laughed, and he heard a projection from her mind like tinkling music in concert with it. "Well, I don't think you're supposed to know about them at all, but I think it would be wise not to take any of it too seriously."

He was quiet for a minute, letting it all sink in. "I believe I will choose to find amusement in the inaccuracy of their assumptions."

She grinned. "Good for you."

Her hand tightened briefly on his arm. "Soooooo," she lingered over the vowel. "I suppose that means you're. . . not gay?"

"No indeed. And as a Vulcan I ought to be deeply offended that you would suggest I was in any such overtly emotional state." Her eyes widened in shock until she realized he had made a joke. Then she giggled.

He allowed her to feel his contentment at her response. "Fortunately, I know the meaning of the Human idiom."

"And?"

"And, I prefer women."

She wrinkled her nose. "'Prefer'? That's about the blandest way of putting it I've ever heard."

"To a Vulcan, "preference" often has non-Platonic overtones. Using the word in the context of your question is logical."

He spoke lightly, but none of the displeasure left her voice. "Yeah. Very logical."

"In my culture, to be "very logical" is a great compliment."

"Oh, it is?"

"Indeed."

"Oh. Interesting. . ."

She trailed off, and did not speak again for a long time. He contemplated reaching out to touch _her_ surface mind, but decided against it. She obviously needed time to think. He would let her.

They passed by a Legiran Dewfruit creeper, loaded with berries. Being hungry, he picked one of the large, pale turquoise fruits. Deftly, he pulled the plum-like thing in half and offered her some.

She waved it away.

He ate the fruit slowly, waiting for her to speak. When she finally did, it was again the last thing he had expected her to say.

"Um."

He was so surprised, he could only repeat the word. "Um?"

"Yes. Um."

"That does not appear to mean anything, Tyanna."

"It means I don't know what to say next. . . and would you mind calling me Ty? Only my mother calls me by my full name, and usually only when she's angry with me."

"Certainly, Ty."

"Um."

He held back an emotion he believed was called 'exasperation'. "May I employ a Human phrase I have learned? It may be useful in this instance."

She gave a half-embarrassed smile. "Sure, why not?"

"I suggest you 'get it off your chest'."

"You mean just go for it? The direct route?"

"That is likely to be the most effective with me."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I - prefer you."

He blinked, not so much in surprise at the statement itself, but with genuine shock at her boldness. It ought not to have been such a surprise by this point, he supposed, but it was. "In the Vulcan sense?"

"In every sense."

"I see."

"And I am all too aware that almost everyone else on the ship likes you too, so I don't want to be a bother, but it's just that. . . . . . um. . ." She sighed deeply. "How much do you know about Betazoid biology?"

He blinked again, almost unable to keep up with the right-angle turns of this conversation. "Not nearly as much as I perhaps ought - almost nothing of consequence, in fact."

She nodded. "Do you know we live significantly longer than Humans?"

"Yes."

"And that our year is a lot shorter than a Standard year?

"Yes."

"We aren't considered fully "adult" until we reach 30 standard years, and we aren't even close to "old" until we reach 300 of our years - about 200 standard years."

He tilted his head, trying to comprehend. "I am aware you are nearly forty-seven according to Betazoid time. In Standard years, you are not yet 31."

"Yes. But for us, just measuring time isn't enough. Our aging process is far more complicated than that."

They rounded a curve and saw a bench. Swiftly, he sat.

In response, a jolt of uncertainty came from her. He did not know why she suddenly felt this way, but he attempted to reassure her anyway. He gestured for her to sit next to him.

"You have my attention, Ty. Please continue."

"Of course." She sat down, composing herself for a long discussion. "Every Betazoid goes through something we call The Phases. Actually they are called _Jair Sep-Alm æ Mot_ \- the Seasons of Life. These consist of Childhood, Puberty, Adolecence, Adulthood, and Elderhood."

"Do not most mammalian species experience this progression?"

She looked straight at him, her eyes tight. "Yes. However, with my race, there is a vital difference. Most species experience them only once, but we go through them periodically. Like seasons, you see."

"Hence the name."

"Yes. In consequence, each Phase is much quicker and shorter than usual for such a long-lived people. And most importantly, every twenty-five standard years or so, the cycle repeats. It is mostly hormonal and emotional changes, of course - it generally does not alter our outside appearence. Nor does it greatly effect our mental maturity. After the first two full cycles, it usually blends out and becomes merely a subtle backdrop to our lives. We go through phases of tastes, opinions, appetites, likes and dislikes, and such."

"Usually?"

"Well, any full-blooded Betazoid will tell you that it naturally takes a little while to get used to living. Would you not agree?"

"Of course. But, you are not fully Betazoid."

"No. But there's a funny thing about Human genes when they are mixed into Betazoid chromosomes. Sometimes, just a touch of Human DNA can actually _amplify_ our telepathic sensibilities. You'd think it would be the other way around, but it very often isn't."

"Indeed. I have found it to be similar with Vulcans."

"Have you?"

"Yes. I shall be interested to see about it in my children, if I ever produce offspring, but I have as much telepathic ability as my father, and far more "range of motion", if you will. My father's mother often commented on it."

"Interesting."

"But I ought to apologize for sidetracking you. Please continue."

She half-smiled. "What I was trying so awkwardly to tell you is this - whatever a full-blood Betazoid may go through, I think my emotional experience of The Phases is. . . well. . . elevated. . . because of my Human DNA."

"I see."

"And. . ." she suddenly inhaled, holding her breath.

"And?"

She exhaled her answer in a rush. "I went through puberty once when I was eleven Standard years old. I am now going through it again."

"I see."

"And. . . this time my body wants. . . _desperately_ wants. . . some. . . you might call it hormone therapy. Very. . . _intimately applied_ hormone therapy. . ."

"Ah."

"Ah?"

"Yes. Ah."

"That does not appear to mean anything, Spock." She smiled as she was able to throw his words back at him.

"It means I believe I understand what you are saying."

"But?"

"But I do not know what you expect me to do about it."

She looked at him disbelievingly. "You can't _possibly_ be confused about what I'm asking?"

"No. But I believe you have missed a salient implication of my statement."

"Which is?"

"Why _me_?"

"Ah, I see. Well. . . I really like you, but we'll put that aside for a minute. I really need to get some help soon or I'm going to go nuts, but I think I'll put that to one side for the moment too." She tapped her fingertips against the plasti-wood of the bench. "I guess it boils down to the fact that you're a male, a telepath, a hybrid, and to top it off, a _gentleman_. No one else on board this ship meets _all_ of those criteria."

He had barely heard anything after she gave that second reason. He leaned slightly closer to her. "Tyanna," he asked, very seriously, "Will you truly "go nuts" if you do not. . . "have some help" very soon?"

Her eyes widened a bit. "You mean literal insanity? No. But as things stand right now, it's _seriously_ impacting my job performance."

He relaxed slightly. "I assume you mean negatively impacting?"

" _Oh_ yeah. My prescribed daily suppressant usually wears off by dinnertime, and I'm only allowed one a day. I've been trying to. . . um. . . take care of myself. . . but, I'm all alone in my quarters, and. . . well. . . it just isn't working."

"May I ask what you would do if I said no?"

She took that hurdle without hesitation. "Oh, Shassan has been giving me hints for months now." She smiled as she thought of the undeniably handsome cadet. "I like him and Thlacar and Silluuen, but Andorian hormones aren't a particularly good fit for me right now."

"Would Vulcan hormones be much better, I wonder?"

"I _think_ so. Besides, Sillu especially wants a second Aleph husband. Thla is a Beth like she is, so both of them are more interested in Shass than they are in each other. Essentially, Shass is her _only_ husband. And she isn't at all interested in a wife, Aleph or not. If I went to them, she and Thlacar probably wouldn't get involved. I'd just be "Shassan's fling". . . and no matter how okay they'd be with it, I'm not sure I want to introduce that dynamic into their marriage."

His respect for her, already high, increased. He had not considered these things when Shass had propositioned him, he had merely said no, as he was used to doing. He had never given very much thought to what might happen if he ever said _yes_. That she _had_ thought about how her encounters would effect others was a very important vote in her favor.

She reached over and gave his knee a friendly pat. "Anyway, I'm asking _you_ because I think we could. . . work. Not permanently, you know, but for a while. Just long enough. . ." she paused, smiling at him, " _And_ \- I think it might be fun."

"I am not primarily concerned with 'fun'."

"No." Her mouth closed around the word as though it had been buttoned. She said nothing more, neither did her mind reach out.

He stood, and wandered a little way down the path to look at the Tergan trees from Bolithor. He found the coruscating colors of their leaves meditative and soothing.

He had watched the tiny heart-shaped leaves slowly change from a sunset orange to rich gold, from gold to bronzy green, and from green to shimmery blue before he looked back at her.

"May I think about it?"

She smiled a fascinating smile that was full of emotions he did not understand. "Of course."

"How long. . .?" He gestured vaguely, not knowing how to phrase the question delicately.

But she nodded, understanding. "If you have not made up your mind by tomorrow night, I will speak to Shass."

"Thank you."

He bowed slightly to her, and took his leave.

* * *

Crew quarters had no windows. _Challenger_ class ships were odd in that respect, because they were bigger than cruisers - big enough, in fact, to need the major structural supports of capital ships. But functionally, they were still small enough to be laid out like most cargo ships. Like the former class, they were configured to make maximum use of sensors and other scientific equipment, but like the latter class, they were low on amenities. Anything aesthetically pleasing seemed almost accidental. Like the proximity of the science labs to the long-range sensor array - a serendipitous juxtaposition to be sure, but resulting from the fact that in the _Challenger_ class design, laboratory modules and long-range sensor packages utilized the same specialized fire safety technology. Given the size of the ship, there was only room for one such system, so the two departments ended up close together on the same deck. On any capital ship, such proximity, though logical, would never have happened. The sensor array would have ended up near Engineering, and the labs would have been much closer to Sickbay.

It was odd either way, Spock supposed. Here on the _Carrington_ , crew quarters were clustered in mid-deck segments, as far from the outer skin of the ship as possible, almost like afterthoughts. But, in consequence, nearly all the department offices _were_ near the outer decks, and had at least one window. In fact, many of the labs had a panoramic stellar view. On a capital ship, the situations would be almost exactly the reverse.

For the first time during this mission, Spock found himself agreeing with Boyce, and cursing Admiral Archer's lack of foresight. If he had not been so nationalistic, then the _Enterprise_ would most likely have been finished by now, and the First Officer's quarters would have probably included a window.

It was massively unfair for him to feel so antagonistic towards an Admiral who was no longer even alive, he admitted, but right now, he dearly wanted a window.

There was so much on his mind that he could barely contain it all. The ongoing support mission here with the colony; the disastrous aftermath of Rigel VII, and the upcoming uncertainty of the Talos mission; the state of the _Carrington_ and her crew; his status as a Lieutenant Commander, and his feelings about having earned it or not; his Instructors degree, and how he would soon need to utilize it; the effects of his relationship - if it could be called that - with T'Pring; but most of all, this new wrinkle that Tyanna had introduced.

She wanted him, had chosen him. All he had to do was reach out and accept what was being placed in his hand. Did he want to?

_I do not know. . . perhaps I. . . no, no, I do not know._

He needed to meditate, but his focus was shot through with so many colors and shapes that he could not. Meditating required focus, control. At the moment, he had neither. He was not yet worthy of sitting in front of an _asenoi_.

He needed to calm down. To prepare. A soothing view of the empty fullness of space would have been ideal just now, but there was nowhere he could go that was not eminently public. And to prepare for meditation in public. . .

_No._

He would have to make do with an alternative.

He rummaged around in the drawer of his desk, pulling out a holo-cube Grandmother Grayson had sent him a few months ago.

After touching a few buttons, a small reproduction of a country style kitchen sprang to life. The view zoomed in to one small section. He heard Elizabeth Grayson's gentle laugh, and saw her hand dangling a long, feathery cat toy in front of Castor and Pollux. The cats looked sleek and healthy, and they were utterly mesmerized by the toy. In unison, they crouched down, set themselves to strike, and then leaped and pounced on the blue fluffy thing. But they both missed, Grandmother Grayson being too quick for them. Her laughter rang out again, and though he could not see her in this view, he felt quite thankful for her audible presence. She dangled the toy in and out of the cats' reach for several more minutes, laughing at the ridiculous contortions they did trying to catch the thing. Then, after finally letting them have it, she spoke into the holo-mic.

"There they are, Spock honey, happy as clams. The whole farm loves them, the scamps. They swarm all over Prince every time he comes in to eat. They swipe his food too, the poor thing. But he's still besotted with them. He gets so happy whenever they pay attention to him, I think he wags his tail off. Sometimes Castor sleeps at the foot of my bed, but usually they both sleep on that sweater of yours you brought for them. I think if they are sad at all, it's because they miss their daddy. I must say - I miss you too. Come home soon. I love you, my sweet baby Gray. Stay safe, stay warm. We're all rooting for you."

The recording ended, and the cube turned off.

Impassively, he hit the "play on loop" button, and watched it three more times.

It was quite remarkable how calming watching two cats play could be, even though they were billions of miles away.

His Human grandmother's voice and message was highly effective too. Her use of the longtime nickname she had for him reminded him of long-ago days when he had visited her, and she cooked most remarkable Human food for his breakfast. She had risen especially early that day, so she might sit at the table with him, watching him eat the pancakes for which she was justly famous.

The memories rose up so strong that he could hear the pattering of rain on the farmhouse windows, smell the hot buttered lemonade, fried eggs on biscuits, and peanut butter cookies that Grandmother preferred to eat every morning, and even taste the blackberry syrup she made for his pancakes. He could hear her asking him to call her "Geegee" or something less formal than "Grandmother". He remembered his inexplicable feelings of regret when he told her he preferred her formal title.

He sighed. It was quite illogical, and very un-Vulcan, to think so emotionally about such a scene. He was indeed half Human.

But he did not allow himself to dwell on it.

_Do I want to accept Tyanna's offer?_

There must be _something_ between them, and it must be something he had never encountered before, because he had not immediately turned her down.

He turned towards his _asenoi_ , but he still did not feel up to the intense focus that true meditation would require.

But if he could not yet meditate, at least he could _think_.

They were friends, he was sure of that. They were not particularly close friends, but that could change. Indeed, he felt it had already done so. Her very suggestion had changed the nature of their relationship. Now, they were more than friends.

_Is it not then my duty to. . .?_

No. _No._ He refused to think of Ty at all in terms of duty. She needed him - or at least needed _someone_ , and had chosen him. He supposed that meant she also wanted him, but. . .

_Do I want her?_

He was still not entirely sure what "want" was - or at least his particular wants, in any case. He sank a short way into his _katra_ , attempting once again to discover what, if anything, his predilections were. He touched one point in his mind, then another. . .

Suddenly, and seemingly from nowhere, his mind was flooded with thoughts and feelings he had never encountered before. A pounding, fluid shock jolted through him, taking but a millisecond to overcome his blood. He shook, unable to control the terror of this unknown thing. There were images too - some that shocked him, some that appalled him, and some that fascinated him. All unnerved him. He gasped aloud, wondering if he was going insane. It was by far the most primal thing he had ever felt.

It bore some resemblance to T'Pring's Times, but the bond was not the source of it. If it had been, he would have recognized it. The images were nothing like what he had seen in her mind, and the emotions were entirely different than what she projected at him.

No. This was all coming from _him_.

The feeling had nothing - or at least very little - to do with procreation, and only a little more to do with relationships. It coursed through him - a desire, a need - to _feel_. To feel life and death and all points in between. To feel _everything_.

With a great deal of relief, he realized it was physical desire. It simply had to be. At last he understood why Vulcans strove so hard to suppress and control this set of emotions in particular. To leave them unleashed could mean destruction, not only for himself, but for everyone around him. Thankfully, now that he had identified what was happening, he could build an effective wall in his mind.

He did so.

The feelings retreated, until they became only a small pulsing point in his thoughts, controllable, but still demanding to be dealt with.

_As though I needed anything more. . ._

A string of the images resurfaced before his mind's eye. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of them. Deliberately, he captured them, and forced them back into the small point of light. As he pushed them away, he considered them. Not all of them involved Tyanna, so at least he could be sure she was not the cause of all this.

Or could he. . .?

For the most part, the feelings were directionless - mindless beasts of impulses. He tried once more to banish them. . . but he could not help noticing that in every one of this resurgence of images, there was a single commonality.

They all included at least one woman.

Collectively, then, they were the things he wished to do to and with a responsive girl.

He paused, suddenly curious about the images.

He picked out one picture in particular - that of a tender mouth-kiss. The woman in this fantasy had short, wavy light-brown hair, and a skin so deeply tanned it was nearly the exact same color as that hair. His fingertips lightly touched her delicately rounded ears. Her wide, generous mouth pushed back against his, and her airy Human emotions tamed his mad advance.

Most humanoid species incorporated some form of such mouth-touching into their intimacies, of course. This included Vulcans, but he found within himself a distinct wish for the gentleness, softness, and sweet play of the Human form of it. If his observations were at all accurate, when Humans kissed, it did not necessarily demand further intimate acts. Sometimes, if not most times, it was fulfilling in itself. He found he very much wanted that. What he had done with T'Pring could scarcely be called kissing - it was more like biting, or vicious devouring, and _always_ tinged with an insistence for more. He did not recall it with any fondness, even considering this revelation of his primal desires.

He pulled out another image - this one of his hand holding a smaller, softer hand in his. This obviously feminine hand matched his own in pallor, save that it was veined with purple-blue, not yellow-green, and flushed pink instead of sallow. The nails were short, and painted dark orange. Their fingers were entwined - a far more intimate act for a Vulcan than for a Human, but still a gentle image, worth pursuing.

He realized he had never had a relationship where _he_ had been the one choosing to go forward. He had always been either neutral, or the one pursued, never the pursuer.

As he at last managed to push the images back behind their holding wall, there rose in him a desire to chase, to compete, to fight, and to win. Above all, to _win_. It was not some medieval idealization where he must prove his worth by rescuing some blighted damsel - no. It was a far more ancient perception, where he would choose his mate, and then after she chose him in return, he would do all he could to show himself as the best possible choice she could have made. The wish was animalistic, a mere meat and chemical reaction, but it would be _for_ her, not _because_ of her. She would be no thing, no prize, no trophy. She would be a _mate_ , as valued as his own skin.

He sighed, and relaxed, the chaotic flood of emotions finally slotting into perfectly logical positions. The glowing spot in his mind dulled, spread, and blended out into the rest of his _katra_. He was, temporarily, at least, free from this new chaos. Now, he could focus.

He rose from his desk, and went to kneel in front of his firepot.

As he lit it, he realized these revelations had wrought a change in him, as subtle as it was undeniable. He felt as though in the past few minutes, he had suddenly, finally, grown up. It was as if this moment had been waiting for him for years. And all he'd had to do was reach into his mind and find it. So why hadn't it happened years ago?

Several images of T'Pring during their one full Time together rose in his memory. Though he did not harbor any tender remembrances from the incident, he remained thankful for it. It had been enough of a revelation to motivate him to fully research the act of mating. And he had done so - quite thoroughly. Humans were extremely free with their information, as were most of the other species around the quadrant. And then, as T'Pau's grandson, he had access to the highly restricted documents that detailed a wide range of Vulcan practices. A few months of study, and he felt he knew most things about the common set of mating practices he was at all likely to encounter, and a respectable amount about several uncommon ones. Among it all, there was a great deal he did not see the appeal of, but very little that he did not understand, at least mechanically.

What shocked him now was that acquiring the knowledge of these things had not triggered the mental transformation he had just experienced. Surely, that would have been the time to feel this rush of emotions?

So why was it here now?

The only catalytic thing he could think of was Tyanna's presence and proposition. Why, why had he not turned her down immediately? There _must_ be something about her. Something not entirely physical, but not entirely spiritual either.

There _was_ something about her. Something. . . he was not at all sure what, but he wanted her. _Wanted_ her. It was an entirely new feeling, and it baffled him.

_Odd. . . when I feel this way, I no longer fear my Time. . ._

He had always been a man, but for the first time in his life, he felt he was _male_. And a _Vulcan_ male, at that. He would strike, he would reach, he would attain. He would possess and be possessed. He would _mate_.

But not with Tyanna.

If the last half hour had taught him anything, it was that Tyanna was not for him. His wanting of her was almost as sterile as the non-wanting he had experienced with Tia. There would be no permanence in a relationship with Ty. There would be no use in pursuing it. He could not be the man she would need, and she could not sate the wishes of his Vulcan heart. Granted, she seemed to know this, and had been honest about it, but could he deliberately enter into an intimate relationship, _knowing_ that it was temporary?

_Why did I not refuse immediately?_

And yet, his mind rebelled at the thought of outright refusal at this point. . .

Perhaps. . . perhaps it would be enough to taste the edges of these new feelings. Maybe consenting to her proposal could teach him more about his individual tastes, which were still largely a blank to him. He wanted a woman, and wanted to kiss her and hold her hand, apparently, but that did not narrow things down all that much. There was a very great deal left to discover about himself.

He lit a stick of incense, and settled in front of his firepot, legs akimbo, ready to work through things logically.

_Why do I want her?_

It was something of a trick question, because right now, practically any suitably available woman sounded good.

_If I had he felt this way two years ago, Leila might not have left me. . ._

No. . . no. Now was not the time for regrets. Had he felt this way then, it would only have made an already awkward situation far more complicated.

_Tyanna is here now. And I want her. Why?_

There seemed no easy answer.

His desires, so newly discovered, could not be easily controlled, and so they could not be reasoned with. At the moment, nearly anything - any _one_ \- could crush the containing wall in his mind. It was entirely possible that he wanted Ty. . . simply because she was there. If he were frank with himself, he knew he _ought_ to refuse any intimacies from anyone just now.

But Tyanna had asked, and she was a friend.

_And yet, what kind of woman is she?_

He asked himself this in good faith, not facetiously. She was a fine woman, highly educated and beautiful. She was also imaginative, and kind-souled, but what did he really know about her?

_She is a conscientious telepath, a skilled xenopologist, and a friendly person, at least by most race's standards. She rarely sits by herself in the mess, and always has an escort to official functions._

And yet, she had made it clear she had no steady relationship among her shipmates. Strange indeed. If experience told him anything, someone like Ty ought to be awash in nearly as many "come on's" as he was. Surely, she could have had her pick.

_Why did she choose me?_

There must be something beyond her stated reasons. As her mention of Shaasan showed, she did have other options. And yet, it seemed Shassan was the _only_ other option she was considering in this case.

_Strange. I wonder why._

There was a slightly unnerving aspect to her, he supposed. Telepathy was often frightening to those who did not have the ability. And Tyanna, careful as she was with her talent, did sometimes have a tendency to know things without being directly told them. But in his opinion, this particular trait had nothing to do with her telepathy, only that she seemed to have never lost the childlike ability to spot a phony. Even when she had her mind closed off almost completely, she had the uncanny ability to take one look at someone, and see right through them. Artifice was useless in her presence.

He supposed she might have chosen him because he was at ease with this aspect of her. He considered such insight a normal part of life - artifice and self-delusion were anathema to Vulcan ideals, after all. Besides, he had few secrets, all of them walled away very securely in places that no respectable telepath would ever go.

And as for disreputable telepaths, well. . . there were ways to protect oneself, of course.

But Tyanna had never given him any cause to suspect that she might go hacking about in places in his mind she ought not to be.

_She is right. We "fit" reasonably well. We could "work" for a while._

Not for very long - she was too dedicated to emotions, and he was too devoted to logic for any union between them to endure - but for a few weeks, or a couple months, they could be together.

But all this _still_ did not explain _why_. . .

_Why would a mostly-Betazoid woman choose a half-Vulcan man to. . ._

And then, it dawned on him. She was a hybrid. Disparity in their non-Human genetics notwithstanding, they were the same species of creature - neither Human nor Alien, but partially both. She was _like him_. They were the only ones aboard who _knew_ , who understood - who were, _and_ were not.

_To be or not to be is not our question._

He realized now that he had fully intended to turn down whatever offer she made, right up until the point she had revealed her hybrid heritage. Only then had something started in his mind. That same something clamored now against his thoughts, desperately wanting to be validated.

_It is not love._

He remembered Chris quoting once, to the effect that "love is common, but understanding is rare".

_It is true._

Among Humans and most non-Humans, love was normal. Love happened between all friends, even the casual ones. Love was the _ta'anna'shau_ you brought to the door of every relationship. It was not always sexual - in fact, _most_ times it was not - but love, true, simple, happy love. . . was everywhere.

But understanding? Understanding was indeed a different creature. He doubted if anyone, save his mother, had ever understood him, and even she could only ever understand in part.

Understanding was precious, beautiful, elusive and, in Ty's case. . . seductive.

Tyanna could understand him, could show him things about himself that no one else could.

 _**That** _ _is why I want her._

He had investigated the Human elements about himself, and the Vulcan elements, but now he wished to investigate the hybrid elements. There was no one else aboard this ship who could even begin to see him the way Tyanna saw him. There was no one else who came close.

They could learn from each other, help each other.

 _A relationship between us_ _ **could**_ _be highly beneficial_.

And yet, his very Vulcan mind rose up with a strong counter-argument.

_It is still illogical._

This was about want, nothing more.

To have such a relationship purely for the sake of experiencing new sensations was illogical, and therefore immoral. For this reason, he had never explored any avenue of response except to refuse all such advances.

But now, he did not _want_ to refuse, and indeed, accepting might possibly be in _some_ way logical.

_What can I do, when logic is illogical, and only emotions make sense?_

Clearly, the only way to solve the riddle would be to take a passage from Tyanna's scroll, and ask himself - what would happen if he said yes?

_Would either of us take any harm from becoming intimate?_

He was not in the least afraid of harming her physically, and he had to assume that she would not have suggested a relationship if she could not handle the mental contact he would require.

But what of _his_ mind?

_Is it possible that we could bond?_

The answer was undoubtedly yes, although direct empirical evidence was non-existent. Logically, however, if a bond with a psi-neutral Human was possible, then bonding with a fully telepathic Betazoid/Human hybrid should be quite easily accomplished.

_Unacceptable._

To offer her friendship, or even intimacy, _might_ be allowable, but to simply impose the lifelong consequences of a Vulcan bond upon her, or anyone, would be to betray both sides of his heritage.

_But that means discussing. . ._

His deeply ingrained cultural revulsion to even mentioning the Time rose in his throat. He shook his head, then re-focused on the _asenoi_ 's flame. They did not _have_ to discuss the long-term consequences of bonding, just so long as they did discuss the possibility of a bond itself. If they both put forth the effort to avoid a bond, then any further information would not be necessary. If they took the proper precautions, they could have a simple, functional, adult relationship. He believed the Human term was "no strings attached".

_But will that be enough?_

He had learned the hard way that simple relationships did not always remain so, no matter the intentions of any of the participants.

Obviously, Tyanna was not trying to seduce or entrap him, but would she ultimately be satisfied with a temporary, emotionally restrained relationship? She was Betazoid - would she not feel cheated by his need for unemotive interactions? When their intimacy inevitably ended, would she not come to hate him?

They would have to speak about this too, before. . .

_Before. . ._

He thought of the possible physical intimacies she might require. He had only a few qualms as to his abilities in the matter. Wincing slightly, he remembered some of the more. . . _specific_ practices he had learned about. If she requested him to dress up like Galactus and sing Christmas carols while feeding peanuts to a Bortergian parrot, he could see their relationship encountering considerable difficulties. On the other hand, if she required anything like the mindless rutting that T'Pring had done, he could well find it impossible.

He shook his head. He very much doubted she was anywhere near that esoteric, or that the Betazoid Phases at all approached the primitive barbarism of the Vulcan Times. It was quite likely that she would want much the same things he wanted: touching, kissing, and other forms of the usual humanoid expressions of intimacy. Such was well within his compass.

His skills at self-containment, however, he was far less certain about. Emotions would be unavoidable in any such interaction, with a full expression of them impossible if he wished them to remain un-bonded. Mental impaction and neural damage were distinct probabilities. He would have to share his emotions with her, and _not_ concurrently with whatever physical interactions they decided upon.

_Would this frustrate her?_

He supposed it might. But she was a very strong telepath; it was probable that she could handle the emotional dissociation, if she understood the need for it.

And there _would_ be a need for it. Again, he scanned the images his mind had so recently sprouted, considering several of the ones that did involve Tyanna. He was struck once more at how desirable she seemed, yet how few on board the ship appeared to notice.

_How good she looks to me. . ._

It was still so strange to find himself wanting her. Wanting _anyone_. His wantings had been so aimless before, so. . . so. . . _naive_. Now, he wanted, very specifically, very strongly, and far less innocently. Quickly, he pushed the images away, reasserting his control.

_My empathic sense may not be enough to communicate what I will need to share. We might have to meld. . ._

His heart sped a little, and the bright spot of physical desire flared in his mind before he could control it. The thought of truly consensual full mental contact, with a woman he not only respected but also _liked_ , was thoroughly exciting.

Yes, what about his own tendencies? At the end of the day, would a superficial physical relationship be enough for _him_? A controlled meld, for the purposes of avoiding a bond and keeping his mental stability. . . that was one thing. Touching the _katra_ of a woman he liked and wanted, with a deliberate lack of any permanent intentions - that was quite another. _Would_ touching the edges of these new desires be enough?

Ultimately, he knew it would not, but if he entered into the experience with the intention of furthering his own self-knowledge, as well as attempting to render a service to a friend, then perhaps. . .

_Can I be emotionally engaged, without becoming emotionally entangled? Can I allow myself that much Humanity?_

That, in the end, was the central question. As he considered it, it rapidly devolved into a personal challenge.

_If I cannot do even this, then I do not deserve a lifelong mate._

If he could not reconcile his Humanity in this, the most basic and vital of interactions, then he was not worthy of the faithfulness and devotion any mate of his would one day bestow upon him.

_To accept Tyanna's offer would be to improve the self I will eventually give my wife._

But. . . it was still illogical.

He wanted her - it could not be denied.

And there was no logic in it.

_To acknowledge our emotions is commendable._

She needed someone, and _wanted_ him.

But that was no excuse.

_To express our emotions is illogical._

To enter into a relationship with her _could_ be very beneficial for both of them, but it would mean denying part of himself, while giving rein to another part which he had vowed to always keep controlled.

_To control our emotions is essential._

Any deliberately temporary relationship was at cross-purposes with a very important part of his soul. To walk into such a thing, wide-eyed and confident, would be every sort of unwise.

_The most assured things in the universe are death, diversity, and stupidity._

She was a hybrid, and might understand all of this.

_Diversity is desirable._

She was also a friend, and compassionate, and a telepath.

_And that means. . ._

He huffed in exasperation.

For someone who was half-Human, he was _drastically_ over-thinking this.

He blew out his firepot, took a shower, changed his clothes, and went to find Ty.

* * *

"So, would you like some tea?"

Tyanna's voice was gentle, but with a dry twist to it that could have been called mocking if not for the sympathetic look in her eyes.

"Thank you, no."

"So you're just going to sit there forever, is that it?"

"I have only been sitting here for three point two seven nine minutes."

"When you haven't said anything, even a short time can feel like forever."

"I have said my greetings."

"Oh, well then." She nodded with a teasing somberness. "I guess hellos, greetings, salutations, hi and how-are-you's are _perfect_ substitutes for conversation."

She was right, of course. He had walked boldly to her tiny solo quarters, and had asked to speak to her - equally boldly. After calmly seating himself where she directed - on the one comfortable chair in the room - she took the odd little stool from behind her desk, and sat upon it, very upright. At which point, his assurance suddenly left him, and he had no idea what to say or do next.

The obvious jocularity in her tone and manner showed that she knew this was awkward for him, and she was not particularly interested in making it any easier just now.

It was not a moment for equivocation

"I apologize," he said, slightly ashamed at his uncertainty in this matter. "I am almost completely at a loss as to how to begin."

She laughed a tight, short laugh. "Well, at the beginning, of course."

He allowed a touch of sarcasm to enter his voice. "In this case, what would _you_ consider "the beginning"? A comprehensive overview of Human, Vulcan and Betazoid mating practices? Or would you prefer to exchange _précis_ of former sexual partners and experiences?"

She sobered quickly, nodding once. "A good point. Let's go for logic instead, okay?"

His mouth twitched in his approximation of a smile. "I believe the Human response is "I'm game."

"Right. First, do we need either of those things? The overview or the _précis_ , I mean. Do we need them?"

"I do not. Though I would not be opposed to a small foray into both subjects. For instance, no matter the goal of any relationship, I cannot countenance overt public displays of affection - even the common practice of holding hands in public would be too intimate for me."

"I see." She sat back on the stool, and for the first time seemed fully at ease with him being in her room. She tilted her head, thinking. "Well, I think I can live without public displays of affection if you can manage a couple of genuine compliments in private once in a while."

He gave a somber nod. "That will not be difficult, Ty."

She looked him in the eyes. Then she blushed, seeing his sincerity, and smiled like a child. "Well. . . that's a compliment in itself. How very meta of you."

"Practically all I have to offer you is an honest attempt to be interesting."

Her grin became far more mature, and her eyes lit with a fully adult look. "Thank you. Now, about that _précis_. . . um. . . well. . . shall we just say that I'm clean? I've never had any illness that might affect. . . us. . . And as to partners. . . let me put it like this. . ." She sighed a little before going on. "I've never been pregnant. I've had a few chances to be, but none I took seriously. And on a related note, I'm on Starfleet's standard wide-spectrum birth-control shot. Do you need to know any more than that?"

He shook his head slightly. "No. On every point, I can say the same - except, of course, that I have not _fathered_ any children."

She smiled in understanding, "In other words, we neither of us have been responsible for any pregnancies."

"Exactly."

"Do you prefer any more. . . direct. . . protective measures?"

"I have never used any - but I am not opposed to them. We can discuss them further when we reach that stage."

"Oh?" She looked confused. "I. . . I thought the fact that you're even sitting here meant you. . . that you're willing to. . ."

"Yes, I am. Only, I believe it is time to consider the most important part of this. . ." He pressed his fingertips together, ". . . proposed relationship."

"Okay?" Her voice and posture tensed.

"What do we intend to do regarding the effects of prolonged mental contact?"

She slouched a little in relief. "Oh, that? Well, for a Betazoid there actually isn't much of an effect unless the two are _imzadi_. For my race, the mental aspect that comes along with intimacy is just another part of the process. If two people fall in love, then bits of their psyches can become inextricably tangled up, but only if they are exceptionally careless. If they get married, a good portion of their first year together is used to craft a permanent bond. It takes full participation and intent from both parties - it can't happen by accident." Her head tilted in question. "I take it the Vulcan experience is not like that?"

He nodded, briefly. "No, indeed. If a Vulcan mind engages in any sustained mental interaction with another mind capable of forming a bond, it probably will. Unless precautions are taken, of course."

"Hmm. Odd."

"No. Alien."

She laughed, loud and clearly. "So it is. Excuse me. For a minute there I was scared you were going to bring up a culturally ingrained fetish or something."

He carefully did not think of the Pon Farr. "No. I do not think you need fear anything of the sort." Then he tilted his head, wondering. "Is that why you seemed reluctant a moment ago? You feared that I would express a desire for something you do not find interesting?"

She made an expansive gesture. "Well, nobody knows much about Vulcan. . . tendencies. About the only thing that is generally known is that you _do_ reproduce sexually, and even that is questioned sometimes. I had no idea what to expect, so. . . I think I just automatically assumed the worst. Sorry." For the first time, he saw her blush deeply.

It was incredible to think that someone like Tyanna was actually _embarrassed_ \- especially at this stage of things.

He softened his voice considerably. "For the most part, Vulcans differ only slightly from Human norms, save of course for the psionic aspect integral to all forms of our cultural intimacy."

"So, you will want mental contact?"

"No." He braced himself. "I will _require_ it. But never during. . . well. . . during."

Her eyes brightened, even as the rest of her expression became confused. "I'm. . . not quite sure I understand. . ."

He nodded, relieved that she had questions, but no objections. "A full meld may be necessary for full expression, but we must take every precaution to prevent a bond from forming - a distinct possibility if we meld at all, but highly probable if we meld during. . . physical intimacy."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is fairly simple when you know that for Vulcans, there are many distinct psychic layers, and thus, a multitude of forms of mental contact."

She nodded. "I see. It must be unlike Betazoid telepathy, which is practically linear. We can form walls and protective shields, but every part of our minds are virtually on the same plain."

"That is indeed a major difference."

"So. . . correct me if I'm wrong. My mind is rather like reading a sentence on a page, but yours is like reading single words on a series of pages - to get the full meaning, you must experience every layer."

He nodded shortly. "Just so. If we were to become intimate, we would both need to become acclimated to different forms of psychic interaction."

She smiled intently, "Such as?"

"Such as this." He held out his hand, palm down. It was an inviting gesture, and she knew it. Slowly, she reached out and touched the back of his hand.

Instantly, she was there, on the periphery of his mind.

_So what is this?_

Like in the arboretum, her thoughts were a bright presence, not at all intrusive.

_This is surface contact - more specific than empathic sensing, and more direct than speech, but not the soul-deep intimacy of a meld._

_I see. . ._

Her mind looked at his, and he could tell she liked what she saw. It was reciprocal - her mind was opalescent and bright - his very definition of "pretty". She caught his thought, and smiled.

_Touching like this means you really like me, I'm guessing?_

_Not exactly. It means I have accepted you as important. In Human terms, this level of contact would probably be called a "friendly hug" or a "familial kiss". It is intimate touching, but without expectations._

_You mean it's the kind of mental contact you could have with, say, the captain, or your mother?_

_Precisely._

_So, I take it this won't be enough?_

_No. . ._

Gently, he parted his outer shields. She was a full telepath, so he did not need to touch a pulse point to guide her one layer deeper.

As she passed though his mental wall, a feeling zapped between where their hands touched.

She gasped, _What is that?_

 _That is "Vulcan kissing"._ He let his mind smile. _Deliberately touching while at this level of mental contact is far more intimate. It is generally only considered acceptable between bonded pairs, usually mates._

_I like it._

_As do I. But this may still not be enough to fully express. . . what we will need to express._

_That's really concerning you, isn't it? May I ask why?_

_Of course. . ._ He backed up from her consciousness a little to gather his thoughts. _Vulcan emotions are extremely intense. To fail to control them is to court madness._

_Ohhh. That's why you asked me if I would actually go crazy if I didn't have. . ._

_Yes._

_In that case. . . is it even possible for Vulcans. . . to. . . enjoy. . . ?_ A pink and orange shimmer slid over her thoughts.

He tinged his own thoughts light blue. _Oh yes. Indeed it is. Very much so. In fact, perhaps too much. . ._ He pointed her to the new bright spot in his mind. _You see?_

She pored over the spot curiously. _I think so. But. . ._

_Yes, Ty?_

_Would. . . can. . . any of this. . . work?_

_Yes. But we must be extremely careful. I will be able to read your surface emotions no matter what, but I must control any desire to see your innermost soul._

_You mean, if we go any deeper, we may bond, is that it? Your mind may link itself to mine, intentionally or not?_

_Exactly so._

_So then. . . what do you suggest?_

_The only logical solution is to engage in physical intimacy separately from mental intimacy._

He could feel that her arm was cramping from being held steady for so long. He broke their touch, allowing her to rest.

"That. . . doesn't sound very fun. . ." she said, wrinkling her nose a little.

"I am aware it is not ideal, but a separated, two-stage process should fulfill both our needs," he said, matter-of-factly. "And it should also allow for a temporary arrangement."

She sighed contemplatively. "Should?"

"This is unfamiliar ground for me too, Tyanna."

She grinned mischievously. "Well, there's one way to find out. . ."

* * *

Now this was a strange sensation. He was touching a woman, but he felt no sense of urgency. Her soft, full curves filled his arms, and her legs draped over his body, while her mouth pressed into his over and over, and her mind touched his and retreated, touched and retreated, teasing him, but not demanding anything.

He felt he could do this forever.

Drastically different than his feelings every other time he had been in the presence of a woman.

Indeed, the entire experience was different. Different in practice from T'Pring and Leila, different in intent from Christine, and manifestly different from everything about Tia. Ty was round and warm, but she was also small - she lost over 40 centimeters to Tia's nearly two meter height. And yet she was small without the fragility of Leila, who had seemed to almost disappear into his shadow at times. The happy brushes of Ty's mind were nothing like the harsh demands of T'Pring, and her steady, glittering thoughts bore no resemblance to the strange desperation of Christine. Additionally, Ty had little of the mothering friendliness about her that Tia had consistently projected, and none of the maternal strength and guidance that Amanda had always given him. In fact, he could tell the cradling pressure of Ty's body against him had nothing at all to do with any kind of parental feelings.

Her bed was narrow and mildly uncomfortable, but after a few quite pleasant minutes of acclimatization, he felt ready to fully touch her mind.

The pressure points on her face were childishly simple to find, naturally, and he sank, deeply and swiftly, into a bright, shining _katra_ the like of which he had never experienced before.

The Betazoid mind, he now saw, was like a seashell. Unlike the Vulcan and Human _katras_ , which were spheroid and open to all forms of bonding, Ty's mind tapered off into a single point that spiraled away from the many-colored chambers of her inner self. The point was the only chamber with a flat space - the only area that was open for a bond. He carefully skirted it, though his own _katra_ was being drawn in that direction. He focused instead on the incredible range of colors that twisted and shifted through the shape of her thoughts.

He wondered if all Betazoids possessed such shimmering opalescence, or if it was just her. . .

 _No, silly._ Her mind-voice at this level was like the sweet sounding of a windchime. _It's probably the Human element. Look._

She reflected her vision of his mind back at him, and he saw much the same patterns of color dancing there. Some distant part of his mind remembered T'Pau showing him something similar, and also seeing much the same thing during the few times he had melded with his mother, though both experiences were a long time ago.

This was a thoroughly different prospect. Ty not only lit up the meld with her reflection of his mind, she actually twisted the shape of the meld inside out, so he was literally looking at himself.

Then the glimmering seashell of her mind rolled against the geodesic sphere of his, exploring him. _From the looks of things. . ._ She brushed against his logic centers - the most Vulcan part of all his mind. . . _I'd say the base colors of most Vulcans is dark silver and light gold._

The meld warped and flipped, twisting back into normal shape. Tyanna's mind lay before him, sedately spinning.

 _Most Betazoid minds are green and purple when at rest. See?_ Her _katra_ slowed its motion, relaxing the emotions within it. As he watched, the outer aura settled into a vibrant, pulsing violet, and the inside glowed with a vivid jade green. She took a deep breath, and let the many-colored patterns resume.

 _That good old Human DNA_ _**does** _ _things to a mind, you know._

_I am aware. . ._

_You've got a lot more variation than I was expecting, Spock . ._ She trailed off as she stared at a few sections of his mind. _Mmmm. Do you know how pretty you are?_ Her mind-voice sighed, then blushed a beautiful orange.

_You find me acceptable, then?_

_Oh, very._

_I am gratified._

She laughed, the twist of her thoughts tinging the meld a peach-like red. _Might I remind you sir, that_ _ **your**_ _gratification is not the only goal of this exercise?_

He smiled grimly, turning the meld blood-green. _Of course. Your pardon._

The meld turned blue, then gold, then brilliant magenta, and pale, pale pink, and finally a rich, deep purple.

_Tyanna? We should break this if we -_

_No, no! Don't go. I want -_

Subconsciously, her mind had almost succumbed to his - the emotions running between them were imposing a bonding state. Another few moments and he would have linked himself with her.

_We must. . ._

He broke the meld, just as she managed to wrench her consciousness back into herself.

"Must be, more. . . careful. . ." she murmured.

He would have answered, but upon opening his eyes, he found they were wearing drastically fewer clothes, and he was touching her in a way that made speech impossible.

He nodded his assent instead, gently re-asserting surface contact with her mind, reading all her little wants, and pleased to discover that she was reading _his_ wants - wants that until this moment he did not know he possessed. Just now she was softly scratching the back of his neck, and he found that he highly enjoyed it.

The feather-light tendrils of her consciousness sparked with living colors as they slid across his mind, spilling over and adding to his own rising feelings. He ached to fully touch her _katra_ again. To let the tide of his emotions free and cover her with the colors of them. To dive into the glittering opalescence of her and lose himself.

Part of him was yearning for a bond. Part of him yelled that what he was doing was fantastically dangerous. And part of him howled not to stop.

The light mental link between them was _not_ enough.

No matter. He was enjoying touching her too much to care.

And then, suddenly, she fell apart in his arms. It was far more the result of their teasing mental touches than anything his hands or mouth were doing, but it scarcely mattered. Her brightness was suddenly incandescent, all of her thought and reason swept away.

He leaned into her, and smelled the happiness on her skin. She was projecting so strongly, he did not need to reach out mentally at all. He buried his face in her neck as she shivered with pleasure, trying to share in her feelings. The flavor of them was most interesting - he never knew one could feel joy and loneliness at the same time.

Finally she relaxed. The nails that had been digging very firmly into the skin of his back released their pressure. But he could still feel the sting of them, though he was fairly certain she had not broken the skin. He knew that if he looked, he would see ten green crescents embedded in his shoulders.

It was an oddly gratifying thought, and yet. . . it was a thought too much.

He clenched his jaw, trying to re-assert his mental shields, but the emotional buildup in his mind was suddenly painful. Beyond his own natural reactions, he had absorbed some of hers, and the overflow was becoming impossible to contain. Flashes of green and gold began stabbing at the edges of his vision. The desire to touch her _katra_ was rapidly devolving into a compulsion - if he did not initiate a meld, he would be risking neural damage. It was quite uncomfortable, and the unwisdom of the situation bore down upon him.

She sighed contentedly, and he gave her one more moment before speaking.

"Now, may I meld with you again?"

She grinned, "Do you have to ask?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I suppose you do." She smirked, and again threw a phrase of his own back at him. "What would happen if I were to say no?"

"I would calmly leave your room, and spend the rest of the evening in meditation," he said, his voice tight. Meditation _might_ still work at this stage, but if she truly denied him, it was likely he would not be able to avoid. . .

She giggled, "Well we can't have that, now, can we?" Her mind enveloped him then, her words clear and pure in his mind. _I'm not used to being without a lot of mental contact during. . . well,_ _ **during**_ _, you know._

He almost gasped at her bold mental touch. _Yes, it was odd for me too._

_And it's a bit strange to do it afterwards, but go ahead. . ._

He placed his fingers on her meld points quickly, releasing all his pent up feelings, all the superfluous emotions that their encounter had produced in his mind. He had made little sound earlier, but he groaned loudly now, with great relief. She easily absorbed the rushing meld, diving gladly through the crash of it, and somewhat surprised that he had made such a production out of something so simple. Now that she knew what they looked like, she adroitly avoided making direct contact with the points on his _katra_ that instinctively wanted to bond.

 _This part really is going to be easy, Spock. You're right - it's not exactly_ _**ideal,** _ _but it'll be extremely easy now that I know what to do._

Clearly Betaziod minds were far more used to accepting overt emotional expressions without attributing core-level importance to them.

_You have the advantage of me, Tyanna. I am not at all used to experiencing such. . . satisfying. . . mental contact._

_So I can see. . ._

She also saw a few of his memories regarding T'Pring.

 _So,_ _ **that**_ _is how you knew to. . ._ she stopped. Curls of apprehension came from her mind.

In some strange way, he understood what she was getting at. _I did not begin tonight a virgin, that is correct._

_Surprising. . ._

_Does this distress you?_

_Not at all - it's just that you had me fooled. You were quite adorably awkward until. . . well, until I needed you not to be. I assumed you were just reading my mind, picking up my cues like you said you would. And here I thought I was_ _**teaching** _ _you something. . ._

He let his mind give a sly smile, remembering exactly what had transpired between them so far. He brought his free hand to her face, and with a fingertip, delicately traced the curves of her mouth. _I can assure you, Ms. St. John, that you did, indeed, effect a most pleasing lesson. . ._

Her apprehension retreated as she kissed his fingertip, and then cuddled closer to him, _Oooo, stroke my ego some more, baby._

_I am not a baby either - and I would have thought the past few minutes would have informed you of that fact. . ._

She heard the joking sarcasm in his mind-voice, and laughed aloud.

 _Tell me,_ he asked, curious, _Why did you share our shipmates' opinion regarding my. . . experience?_

 _Oh,_ she shrugged slightly beneath his fingertips, _Probably because you're the most walled-off telepath I've ever met, so instead of picking up your actual self-projections, I mixed my ideas up with what the crew thinks about you. I'd apologize, but so many of them have improbably strong ideas about you - I mean, practically all of them wish they could give you your cherry soda -_

He blinked. _My what?_

_It's the thought-image I get from most Humans regarding you. "Cherry soda."_

_I thought the term was "cherry pop"._

Her mind glittered sea-green with confusion, with some grayish pink of doubt. _"Pop" and "soda" are synonyms, are they not?_

He shrugged. _It might be so. I find there is little point in keeping up to date with most Human slang. It changes almost from day to day._

 _Well, whatever, I can guarantee you that you have everyone else on the ship fooled too. You're the Emotionless Vulcan, logical to the core. Desirable, but totally unreachable. They probably wouldn't believe we were together even if we_ _**could** _ _hold hands all over the ship._

The color of her mind-voice changed rapidly, morphing from playful and happy, to concerned and slightly defensive. From orange and white, to blue, and pale purple.

_You have my apologies. . ._

_No no, discretion isn't what worries me._

_Then what does?_

_How can you possibly find this sort of thing logical, Spock?_ The blue of her mind deepened. _And with me, of all people? I'm about as far away from proper Vulcan standards as it's possible to be. I mean, you and me? Here? Now? It's crazy. I'm just. . . shocked you accepted my offer, really. . ._

He shook his head, looking deep into those warm black eyes of hers, _What is necessary is always logical, Tyanna. Besides which, Betazed's morals differ greatly from Vulcan's._

Her nose wrinkled in confusion, _That's supposed to comfort me. . . how?_

_As a Betazoid who has embarked upon a relationship with a Vulcan._

_I'm sure that made sense in your head, Spock._

_Tyanna, we_ _**are** _ _"in my head."_

 _Oh yeah. . ._ her mind laughed again, _But we haven't even_ _ **begun**_ _to explore each other yet. . ._

_Exactly. . ._

He gently broke the meld, though it was clear she wanted it to continue.

"I will gladly continue this conversation," he said, running his fingers through her soft red curls again, "Later."

* * *

Finally, things were going well.

Chris surveyed the bridge, well pleased with his decision to continue the mission.

They were nearing the end of the impulse-leg of the run to Talos Prime. The globular cluster was so crowded in their approach sector that warp speed was dangerous for a ship as slow as the _Carrington_. But, traveling at sub-light speeds allowed for the lateral sensor array to pick up some highly detailed readings, so it wasn't a total waste of time.

And finally, _finally_ , the bridge crew was settling into a sustainable routine. Spock's assignment this week was for Second Commander on deck, _and_ , at last, Science station, Alpha Shift. He fit into the dual position like it was made for him. Well, except for when he was patrolling the bridge. The kid looked over shoulders and kept the crew on task like the most professional of First Officers ever. Which Chris had to admit, he probably was.

Jack was at Ops, doing well, and heroically refraining from making eyes at Fiona at Tactical. The two had just recently begun dating - Chris assumed because she had finally turned her attention elsewhere now that Spock was hooking up with St. John. Like much of the crew, she'd been quietly infatuated with Spock for months. Luckily, Jack wasn't the sort to hold a schoolgirl crush against a good looking young woman like Fiona, especially since he'd made a pass at Spock himself once. He'd been the first Human male to do so, in fact, as Spock told Chris later, in confidence. Chris still had to smile at the story the way Spock told it. "Awkward" was a massive understatement. Jack just didn't have the chutzpah to come across confident while batting out of his league like that. Fiona seemed a much better fit.

She was, in fact, the most composed cadet on the bridge, aside from Spock, of course. She wasn't the best Tactical officer he'd ever taken on a Senior's Mission, but that was only because Min Xiu had graduated two years ago - and was already a lieutenant on the _Crazy Horse_. Fiona wasn't a step down from that, exactly, only different in her methods to such a degree that Chris thought, perhaps, she wasn't suited to a ship this size - or any ship of the line, really. Her instinctive tactical decisions were routinely smaller in scope than a capital ship required, but that would make her ideal for a scientific scout ship, or a border patrol team. . .

He shook his head a little. Sometimes he got so wrapped up in planning the careers of each cadet, he lost focus on his current mission.

_Onward, Pike, stop daydreaming._

Greg was piloting this week, and E'nnnor was at communications.

Chris had known Greg's parents when they had been assigned to the _Yorktown_ , and he seemed to embody traits from both. Like his father, he was everybody's friend, but like his mother, he was no one's confidant. He came across happy most of the time, but he was all too subject to periods of depression - bouts made all the more difficult by the contrast they made from his usual lighthearted outlook. It made for trouble, occasionally, but Boyce was aware of the situation, and kept an eye on the kid. Remarkably, his piloting never suffered, even after his predictably strong reaction to losing friends at Rigel VII. Ultimately, Chris had to admit that Greg. . . was Greg. For better and worse.

E'nnnor, as a Dermian, did have a few problems fitting in. But his excellent work on Comm., and his classically Dermian self-deprecating style of humor were rapidly eroding the walls of difference. He would go far, in Chris's estimation.

There were six other cadets at the secondary stations, and all were also settling in smoothly.

_This shift, at least._

The previous shift had reported a suspected anomalous reading along their projected flight vector. They had all seemed highly squeamish of it too. It was at long range, so they hadn't been sure what it was or if it was even anything. However, a second ago the collision warning meter had pinged and the viewscreen image had warped. For sure there was an anomaly of some kind.

And for the first time, this crew of cadets seemed to be handling it calmly.

"Check the circuit," called Spock.

"Viewscreen checks out," responded Jack.

"There is definitely something out there Captain, and it is headed straight for us." Spock's calm delivery stripped this report of any drama, but the bridge still tensed.

It was a good tension, Chris decided. A gearing up, not a breaking down.

_Finally._

"Go to yellow alert. Shay?"

Fiona scanned her screen before answering. "I thought at first it might be a meteoroid, sir - we're heading through quite a dense belt of Oort-like objects at the moment - but none of the sensors can pick up any debris on a direct collision course with us."

"You can't get a clean scan of the object at all?"

"No sir."

"And there was no interference when you did a sensor focus?"

"No sir."

"Right. Goll?"

E'nnnor's insectiod mouthparts clicked as he responded. "All bandzz Klear, KapTain."

"Very well."

Greg half turned out of his chair, "It's coming at warp one, sir. At that speed it'll go right through this old bucket, shields or not. Evasive maneuvers?"

The young man's voice was half businesslike and half fearful. A fairly good combination, all things considered.

"Sir? Should we go evasive?"

The fear was rising now.

"Steady, Baldwin," said Chris, calmly, "If it is what I think it is, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Yes sir."

Chris watched as the young man visibly steeled himself.

The collision warning alarm pinged again. . . and again. . . and again, the interval getting shorter each time. Red lights flashed, and the image on the viewscreen rippled and warped, like huge drops of water were falling on it in time with the collision alarm. . .

Pling!

Pling!

Pling!

p-Ling!

Whatever it was hit the shields, going right through them.

And then it was gone.

For a long two seconds, the bridge was eerily quiet. Then E'nnnor spoke up.

"ssSir! We have resssieved a radio Transssmission. KapTain, iT sssoundzz liKe a disssTresss sssignal. "Shhhip in Trouble, maKing a forsssed landing". . . and then the messsage repeaTsss."

Chris nodded tightly. "Yes, I thought so. Old style distress beacons typically sent out disruptive radio waves like that."

"What? Why?" Greg asked, his voice shaking, but quickly brought under control, "I mean, what good would radio waves do? It would take decades to contact anyone that way, if they could at all, especially from so far out here - "

"He isss KorreKt, sssir," E'nnnor interrupted, "By my KalKulaTionsss, the sssignal mighT have originaTed from a sssTar sssysTem abouT eighTeen lighTyearsss along vecTor 217."

"There you go Baldwin," Chris said, leaning back, "We invented warp engines before we invented a reliable subspace communications network. A crashed ship eighteen years ago would have had to fall back on the old-fashioned tech, most likely. Stand down alert, and begin a standard scan for class M planets."

"Yes sir."

"Spock?"

"Yes sir?" The half-Vulcan stood gracefully from his place, and came and stood next to the Captain's chair.

"Are there any records of a ship lost in this area eighteen years ago?"

"I will check."

As he went to do his job, Chris felt an odd twinge of apprehension - a cobweb of foreboding cast across mind, like someone had walked on his grave. It was not the first time he had felt it recently either.

_Now, where. . .?_

And then he remembered. . .

* * *

_With as much ceremony as he possessed, Chris stepped up to the gleaming new main generator, and pulled the little lever that turned the whole thing on._

_The assembled colonists and cadets watched as the dilithium core hummed and glowed into life for the first time._

_There was light but sincere applause. The Gestus VIII colony was now officially self-sufficient._

_Most of the surrounding crowd wandered off, milling about on the lawn just outside the generator building, waiting for refreshments to be served._

_Through the broad, clear windows of the beautifully open architecture these colonists preferred, Chris watched his cadets mingle and chat, like the good members of Starfleet they were. He was also pleased with how the last few weeks had been. The tension among the group had at last begun to dissipate, allowing interpersonal relationships to finally solidify, making them not just classmates on the same ship, but a crew._

_And speaking of interpersonal relationships. . ._

_Spock and St. John were the only two cadets still inside the building, talking to the newly elected Mayor of the colony. Chris smiled softly as Spock's dry voice stated some number or another, and St. John's warm answering tones somehow turned his statement into a joke. The Mayor laughed, seeming quite enchanted with the pair._

_And well she might be. Though they didn't advertise it, they were clearly an item, and their sturdy contentment was infectious._

_Chris had to admit to some surprise, however. St. John seemed the last person Spock would be interested in, and he would not have laid any odds on Tyanna being the sort to go for the strong silent type. But here they were, undeniably a couple, and by Chris's calculations, they had been so for at least a month now, probably more._

_He smiled again._

Just show's to go ya, you never can tell _. . ._

_Slowly, he made his way over to them._

_"Hasn't my first officer bored you with his encyclopedic knowledge of this generator yet, Mayor Reed?"_

_"Oh, Dashandra please, Captain, and not at all. In fact, we were discussing the likely growth of the_ fogurrya _crop this season, what with the rains about to start."_

 _Spock nodded solemnly, "Since_ fogurrya _is a hybrid of the Vulcan gourd_ shu'vasaya, _and the Rigellian melon_ gosof'rta, _I was interested in the projected success of the plant. Apparently they are attempting to grow it as a main carbohydrate staple, Captain. Such a venture has not yet been tried with_ fogurrya _in biosphere as temperate as Gestus VIII."_

_Though he was as serious and controlled as usual, there was something in his voice which bespoke of ease. Chris doubted anyone who hadn't been in close association with the kid every day for months would have noticed, but Spock seemed much less stiff and formal than was his norm. Almost. . . happy._

_Almost._

_The mayor smiled up at Spock, pleased at his erudition. "It seems you're interested in a wide range of topics, young man. My husband would love to meet you, I'm sure - he's also as eclectic as they come. And you, young lady," here she turned to St. John, "simply have to meet our city planner. He's a Sysarrian, and obsessed with developing cultures. He's just wild to hear whatever you can tell him about Rigel VII. You see. . ."_

_She authoritatively ushered the cadets out to the refreshment table, where some bright green punch was now being served, leaving Chris quite alone._

_Good as it was to see the cadets coming together as a crew, and Spock gain some measure of contentment at last, there was something. . . something back behind his mind, nagging at him. There was something sinister going on, some portent of doom somewhere. . ._

_He shook his head. He had been a captain too long to ignore his gut feelings, but by the same token, he could not act on a vague sense of foreboding any more than he could have single-handedly won the battle on Rigel VII. And the feeling wasn't coming from Spock or St. John, nor was it really about them. But it did involve them in some way, he was sure of it. If he believed in premonitions, he might have called it that, but the anxiety was far too non-specific to be any sort of useful precognitive information._

_It was probably just his hip still acting up. He was getting much too old to have his major joints knocked out of place on a regular basis. He'd ask Hill for another dose of tendon re-gen when they got back to the ship._

_But for now, there was no need to let some vague feeling of unease make him anti-social. He put on his most Captain-like expression, and went out to the party._

* * *

Colt stumbled onto the bridge, almost colliding with Jacobson, their bridge security officer. He caught and steadied her with an "Oooops! There you go!" and a friendly chuckle.

"Sorry Captain," she grinned at the whole room as she regained her balance, "I can't seem to get used to the bridge, somehow. The floor surfaces are so different. . . you get all the nice plastile up here." And she squeaked those trim little flats she habitually wore against the clean, shiny tiles of the bridge floor.

Chris forced a half-smile, only just managing to stop himself from looking at her shoes. It was an undeniable fact that Jen Colt simply had the prettiest ankles he had seen on a woman in a long time. . . "It's a little strange at first, isn't it, yeoman?"

"Well, it's certainly nicer up here than down in Analytics. Anyway sir," she said cheerily, "You wanted these reports by 0500 - which is now, sir." She held out a PADD.

Chris sighed a little, devoutly wishing the PADD was coffee. But he had a strict rule about food and drink on the bridge, and he stuck to it, especially on cadet missions. "Thank you, yeoman."

As he took the PADD, and she glided away, he felt that odd, vague apprehension again.

_Odd. . . very very odd. . ._

He had been fighting his ridiculous attraction to Colt for the last few weeks, to be sure, but she had never triggered his eerie alarm before. . .

Spock materialized at his elbow. "Starfleet has no record of a mission to this area, Captain, but we are still connected to the Rigellian network, and their archives state that a privately funded survey mission was launched from the Vega colony approximately eighteen years ago. They also note that the ship was presumed lost in the Perseus Field anomaly - "

"Which had just been discovered around the same time."

"Yes sir, and which we can assume was also the reason there was no follow-up, and almost no record of the mission."

"Yeah, Perseus Field losses were notoriously difficult to prove, even when the investigations went smoothly, which _very_ few of them did. Probably the funders just wrote the whole thing off, hoping to avoid bankruptcy."

"Very likely, sir."

"What was the ship called?"

"The S. S. _Columbia_."

Jack spoke up, "Sir?"

"Yes, Dunning?"

"Sensors report there are forty-five M class planets in vector cone 217. The nearest three, and the next nearest eight could all be the source of the signal."

"No hint as to which one is more likely?"

"No, but the science station might be better able to say. . ." Jack looked at Spock, questioningly.

Spock strode off to his seat, but did not sit down, choosing instead to work his station while half stooped over. But in that posture he was surprisingly quick and efficient. He reported his findings within minutes.

"The most likely is Talos 81205, along vector 224. The area has been observed and charted, but never explored. It is a twin main-sequence star system, with 11 planets. Number 4 is M class."

"Likelihood it's the planet the message came from?"

"Given the available data, I would say approximately 89.54%."

Chris took a deep breath, and banished all strange forebodings from his mind. "All right then. Helm, change course to 224, engage lightspeed on my mark, warp factor 7."

Greg acknowledged, punching the co-ordinates into the navi-comp very smartly.

"Sir." Spock said the word in a normal voice, then thought better of it, coming back over to the captain's chair and bending over, lowering his voice considerably, "May I remind you that we are on a mission of our own? This is a considerable detour."

"Exactly, Spock." Chris grinned. "If they did survive, they probably have information relevant to our mission - and besides, survivors! Isn't that wonderful?"

Spock's lip twisted as it often did when Chris made unsubstantiated claims. "There is nothing to indicate survivors, Captain. We have only an eighteen-year-old distress signal. We aren't even certain - "

"There isss a follow-up messsage Koming in, KapTain," interrupted E'nnnor, "iT sssaysss, "Eleven sssurvivorsss from Krasssh. GraviTy and oxygen within limiTsss, food and waTer obTainable. But unlesss. . ." E'nnnor paused, listening again, "The messsage fadesss afTer ThaT, KapTain."

Chris allowed himself a small smirk. It was a little thing, but he liked to be right as much as the next man.

"What do you think now Spock?" he whispered in the general direction of his second-in-command.

The kid straightened up, and spoke very formally.

"It is now a _fully justified_ detour, Captain."

"Indeed it is. The navi-comp ready with the course, Baldwin?"

"Yes sir," said Greg, sounding quite excited.

"Good." Chris nodded at his crew. "Engage."

* * *

When Spock awoke, his first thought was that their mission was certainly not going as the captain would have wanted it. The _Carrington_ was an old ship, quite beyond its prime, and its engines could not maintain the warp factor 7 that would have been perfectly reasonable to expect from any modern ship of the line. Fifty-eight hours ago they had been forced to reduce speed to warp 2.3, or risk a core overload.

What should have taken hours was taking days. Days that technically should have been spent in survey mapping the stars they were hurtling past. . . They had passed their original destination of Talos Prime twenty-six hours ago. And all for what the captain himself would admit was probably a "wild goose chase".

And even if it wasn't, after eighteen years, would days, or weeks, or even a month _matter_ to a stranded crew?

He sighed, and carefully turned over. Ty's bed was precariously narrow when two people were in it. He supposed that if he had been stranded for eighteen years, he would want rescue as soon as mortally possible.

He looked across at Ty, who was still sleeping soundly, and gently lifted an errant curl that had strayed across her face, placing it back along her head.

It was. . . comforting. . . just how easy it was for him to be tender to her.

And yet. . .

It was strange, and somehow fitting, that they were possibly on their way to end the isolation of a group of survivors, and here were he and Tyanna - the only two hybrids aboard the _Carrington_ \- and he could already feel their relationship drawing to its end.

They had both been surprised at the effectiveness of Vulcan hormones on Betazoid physiology. The Phasic imbalances she had expected to last months had abated almost immediately after they had solidified their relationship. According to her - and he had no reason to suspect duplicity - his presence had ceased being necessary after only nine days. But they had stayed together, not just because Ty did not want to risk a relapse, but because they had both discovered an amazing thing. . . They _liked_ being with each other.

It was a betwixt-and-between feeling - they both admitted that, but there was something in it that prevented their assignations from being merely physical. It was more than the friendship they had possessed before coming together, and less, much less, than what happened with _imzadi_ or an incidence of _shan-ha-lak_. It was neither one, and yet there were shades of both.

It was such an odd feeling, he was unsure if it had a name in either of their cultures. Even the Human term "friends with benefits" did not express what their relationship meant to them both.

But, he was highly grateful for it, whatever it was. It had taught him so much, even in these few short weeks - _she_ had taught him so much.

About love. About relationships. About himself.

They didn't need a name.

But, alas, he knew that soon, very soon, his _katra_ would come to a crossroads. Either it would demand at least a _t'hy'la_ bond with this woman who so greatly pleased him, or it would need to retreat. As a Vulcan, he could not stay betwixt-and-between indefinitely. He either must progress, or he must stop.

She knew this too. He had felt it in her mind for several of their latest encounters. The betwixt-and-between nature of their current mission had merely brought the feeling to the forefront, he supposed.

They could last as long as the mission. Possibly. Certainly they could last no longer than it.

He felt a twinge of regret, illogical as the feeling was. Ty was a beautiful and worthy woman. Their time together had been almost uniformly pleasant, and their few minor disagreements were so easily forgiven that even his eidetic memory had nearly been persuaded to forget them already.

There was nothing to regret.

Except. . .

Except. . .

His comm. pinged at him, breaking his already shaky line of thought.

He reached out and flipped the thing open. "Spock here."

The Captain's voice emerged from the device. "The engine rooms were able to put on a burst of speed last night, Spock. We're just about to orbit Talos 4. Scans are showing metal debris on the planet, and several indistinct lifesigns. It all looks real fascinating. You up for an away mission?"

"Yes sir," he said, as cheerfully as he ever did, "I will need a few minutes, however. . ."

"No problem. It'll be a a few minutes before we can safely transport. Meet us in transporter room two."

"Acknowledged."

He rolled out of bed, retrieving his neatly folded uniform from atop Ty's small desk. He was in the middle of getting dressed when she stirred.

"Mmmwhat is it, Spock?" she asked, groggily.

"An away mission. We have reached Talos 4."

"Mmmmmm." She stretched and yawned, "Mmmnot on duty until later."

"No, you are not."

"Kay. See you later then. . ." She yawned again, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

He was not entirely certain he did not envy her.

* * *

The beam down was completely normal. The surface of the world was not. The scorched, dry landscape was not shocking, but the utter desolation was. The sensors hadn't picked up much, Chris had told him - only some metal debris that scanned as man-made. Apparently there was so much sensor scatter that even life forms could not clearly register.

On first sight, Spock thought that might be because there were no life forms to find.

As far as eyes could see, there was nothing but the dull brownish greys of dead soil and barren rocks. The atmosphere was heavy and hot, but not with the energy of a living but hostile planet like Vulcan or Fallmak. No. . . Spock's first breath of dusty, stale air had told him this planet was dead - or very nearly.

The survivors' second message had said food and water were available. In this tumbled desert, Spock doubted it.

But more than that, as soon as they materialized, they all became aware of a. . . humming. . . sort of sound. It filled the air with a tense, almost dramatic melody, despite only barely having melody. It keened through the atmosphere, almost as though the planet had been. . . waiting for them.

He suppressed a shiver. He knew better than such superstitious anthropomorphic nonsense.

And so it proved to be. As they threaded their way through the small wadi they had deliberately landed in so their approach would be concealed from the suspected settlement, some of the vague life-forms they had detected came into view.

Plants.

Nothing but plants.

The eerie sounds on the air got louder as they came closer to the strange-looking things. Clearly, they were the source of the sounds. Even as the rest of the landing party relaxed - for the sound had discomfited them all - Spock paused, wondering how such a thing was possible.

Tentatively, he touched a stem. A note dropped out of the keening melody. He touched a leaf, and another note was silenced. The thin skin he was touching went from aquamarine blue to jade green - it was unmistakably alive, but also very smooth and rigid. There was no doubt that the plants were mostly made of metal. A sudden wind rushed past them, intensifying the vibrations they heard. He drew his hands back, and the missing notes resumed.

 _Fascinating_.

The soil and atmosphere of the planet was abundant with heavy metals. It was this that was fouling their shipboard scanners, in fact. It was quite a surprise then, that the indigenous flora had adapted to utilize the very materials which were typically so toxic to living things.

He glanced at the captain. Chris smiled at him, no doubt to indicate that if this were nothing but a scientific mission, he would already have asked Spock about the plant, and most like have ordered both the Bio and Botany sections out on away teams, as well.

But they were here for other reasons. Chris moved on, and everybody followed.

Spock hung back as the tiny makeshift shelters finally came into view. His experiences on Rigel VII had made him especially cautious of the unexplained, and even more wary of being the first to be "in the thick of things". His observational skills were much better utilized when he had a big picture view.

Boyce, on the other hand, practically leapt at the encampment.

"Hello the camp!" he called, eagerly.

Five or six old men became visible beneath the ragged canopies. They looked up, shocked at the unknown voice.

"They're men. . . They're Humans. . . " one of them breathed to his companion.

Spock thought it an odd thing to say at such a moment.

Surely, being Human himself, the man could not feel the need to be so redundant. Who else would he have expected to answer a Federation-class distress signal but a party made up mostly of Humans? Even surprise could not account for such a statement, especially here on such a desolate planet, where he certainly had conversed with no creatures who were _not_ Human.

_Unless. . . . . . but that is highly improbable. . ._

The rest of the landing party all began talking at once, cheerfully introducing themselves. The rest of the survivors came forward, laughing and exulting. . .

It all seemed most open and natural, friendly, and not sinister in the least.

But Spock still held back, his mind racing. He reached out empathically, minutely pushing at reality. . .

Suddenly, for a brief, disorienting half-second, his vision of the whole settlement seemed to blur, flicker and pixelate, almost as though he were seeing some sort of _transmission_ , and not a very good one.

Adrenaline shot through him, and he blinked, shaking his head. He backed up a step, staring hard at the huts and ragged cloth and half-rusted pieces of metal. He slowly approached the nearest canopy, and reached out to touch the metal support. He opened his mind up fully, and pushed at reality again, more forcefully this time. But whatever it was did not reoccur.

Regardless, the place had now totally unnerved him. _Something_ was not right. He raised his mental shields, just in case, and sent out a thin communication bond to Tyanna. Best to have an anchor for. . . whatever was going on here.

She felt his touch, and, quickly awakening, she accepted it, temporarily binding it safely to her subconscious in the unique manner they had devised over the past weeks.

_What's wrong Spock? Why do you need. . .?_

The bond gleamed blue with her worry.

_I do not know. There is. . . something odd. . ._

He let her see the greenish grey of his apprehension.

_Is it dangerous?_

He could feel her preparing to beam down to aid him.

_No, Ty. Stay where it is safe. I am sure of nothing - it may have been nothing._

_Pah. I can feel your dread - and you're the very_ _**last** _ _person to go off all half-cocked based on nothing._

He did not answer, for suddenly all the voices around him were stilled.

A young, implausibly beautiful woman had appeared, scantily clad in rags - which were, admittedly, the only clothing she had access to, but in this eminently coarse environment they were incongruously clean and well manicured - especially next to the weatherbeaten men who were her companions.

"This is Vina," said one of the survivors, with obvious pride in his voice, "Her parents are dead. She was born almost as we crashed."

Spock thought this was also a singularly strange way phrasing such facts. What had the girl's orphan state to do with anything? It was almost as if the man had not spoken to another of his species during the whole eighteen years he had been stranded.

But, that was _impossible_. . .

Wasn't it?

He waited for someone in the landing party to mention it.

But the men did not answer - even the Captain said nothing. They were all transfixed.

The man might as well not have spoken.

Spock had to admit that anyone probably _would_ be stunned at such a sight in this forsaken place.

He was entirely unsure why, but in _his_ estimation, this Vina was triggering nearly every alarm bell his mind possessed. He could not shake a sudden memory of the Human legend of Jason and the Argonauts. . .

_Shipwrecks and sirens. . ._

He clenched his jaw, for from the looks of the men, if there _was_ any danger here, he would be left very nearly alone to attempt to conquer it. There were in a great deal of trouble if he should prove to be an unimpressive Orpheus.

_Tyanna?_

_Yes?_

_Get to the nearest transporter room. I am not yet certain why, but you may be needed there._

_On my way._

* * *

Chris did not know why he couldn't look away from the girl.

 _Vina. Her name is Vina_.

She really shouldn't be so interesting - she was one of a group of survivors, nothing more.

And yet. . .

There was something unreal about her - something impossible about her perfect teeth and eyes, and something. . . _beyond_. . . about the way she moved. She was completely, totally aethereal. Yet at the same time she seemed to be the only _real_ thing in his range of vision. . .

She met his gaze boldly. "You appear to be healthy and intelligent, Captain. A. . . prime specimen."

Her voice was soft, and sweet, but somehow odd - too precise, but exaggerated too, in some inexplicable way. . .

One of the other survivors came over from where he was packing their belongings.

"You must forgive her choice of words, Captain. She's lived her whole life with a collection of aging scientists."

The man placed the bedroll he was carrying in the pile nearby, then went back to one of the little huts.

Chris was still staring at Vina.

She didn't seem to mind.

He supposed her upbringing might explain. . . it. . . this. . . whatever this was.

Might explain most of it, anyway. . . or some of it, at least. . . .

No. . . it didn't explain anything.

Finally, Boyce broke the spell.

"If the young lady can spare you for a moment, Captain, I'd like to make my report."

Chris looked at his chief medical officer thankfully. The wispy eeriness that had been haunting him for weeks now had flared into something much more powerful, but no less strange, the moment Vina had appeared. Boyce's solid practicality usually had the effect of dissipating such feelings.

"Go ahead, Doctor."

"I've scanned everyone, and their health is perfect. Honestly, it seems too good. With the resources they have and the environment here, it just doesn't seem possible - "

"Oh, there is a reason for that," Vina interrupted, "A very good reason. It is only. . ." she hesitated, as though embarrassed, "I wonder, we _all_ wonder, if. . . if Earth would be ready to learn about it. . ."

Boyce looked at her, an exasperated expression hovering around his lips, but he was gentleman enough not to let it color his voice when he said, "Well, Miss Vina, I dearly hope you let us make that distinction ourselves. But before we get to that, could you be a little more specific?"

She looked almost surprised at being spoken to by Hill, and became even more incoherent and flustered. "Ah. . . well. . . I. . . I suppose I could. . . show you? Or at least the Captain, I mean. . . I don't. . ." She gestured vaguely, and her voice faded away.

Hill smiled knowingly, "All right young lady, I get it." The doctor turned to him, and with a smirk, handed him a medical scanner. "I'm a doctor, not a chaperone. Try to get some good data on the whatever-it-is in between the moony-eyes and kissy faces, okay?"

Chris took the scanner, opening and closing his mouth a few times, with no sound coming out.

To cover his shame at being just as flustered by the situation as Vina was, he looked around the encampment for a second. Shassan had commed up to the _Carrington_ a minute ago, relaying the need for quarters and transport very soon. The rest of the landing party was aiding the survivors with their packing. Even Spock had ducked into one of the shelters - or so he assumed, for the kid was nowhere to be seen at the moment.

Everything was going smoothly. There was no reason he couldn't go see this thing Vina wanted to show him, and come back in time to supervise the survivors' transport to the _Carrington_.

"Al. . . alright." he stammered a bit, waving the scanner, "If you would lead the way. . ." He bowed and gestured to Vina, who smiled at his attention, and glided away in the direction of a small stone hill - the only really noteworthy landmark nearby.

They were about halfway there when she looked over her shoulder at him, giving a tiny coy smile, and a distinctive tilt of the head.

Suddenly he realized. . .

 _She looks like Gwynedd. . . she_ _**moves** _ _like Gwynedd._

Bright, fearless, irrepressible Gwennie.

The girl he had been planning to marry. . .

The girl who had been dead for nearly thirty years.

All of the eeriness he had been feeling lately returned with treble force.

It was only a superficial similarity, of course - Vina's eyes held little of the liveliness and none of the forcefulness of character that had been Gwyn's two most striking traits. Vina's hair was short, while Gwyn had always worn hers long. Their eyes were not quite the same shade of blue. Their mouths were not the same shape. Gwyn had been a good three inches shorter. But there was a similarity there nonetheless.

Vina was blond, graceful, precise in her speech and motions, and quite remarkably pretty. All like Gwyn had been - but there was nothing in that which could not be put down to simple coincidence. Nothing that should be strange, or strike him as suspicious.

He tried to pin down exactly what was wrong about her, then.

Somehow. . . it all seemed like a livery that Vina wore, instead of the natural soul that had shone out from Gwennie.

_I wonder what you are, Miss Vina. . ._

Then they arrived at the little hill he had expected was their target. It was only an outcropping of bleak gray granite - as dry and featureless as most such piles of stone. But she turned to him suddenly, eagerly grasped his arm, and pointed him to two nondescript rocks halfway up the pile.

"Look, there it is! Do you see it? And there too!"

He did not look where she pointed - he knew would see nothing. All at once his eerie premonitions coalesced into razor-sharp suspicion.

"What is going on Vina? I don't understand. . . "

She met his gaze half-shyly, but girlishly eager too, "Oh! But you _will_ understand. I promise, Captain. . ."

He backed away, suddenly frightened. . .

And then he felt a paralyzing burst of electricity course over his body, and then several tiny, gripping hands laid hold of him. He tried to whirl, tried to fight back, but. . .

_Can't. . . see. . ._

He nearly always lost consciousness from stun blasts, and his fading vision and the burning at the base of his skull told him that this time would be no different.

As they took him away to who-knew-where, he heard Vina's voice, its softly dangerous tones finally revealed.

"You're absolutely perfect. . ."

Self-recriminations rose in him, even as he felt his mind slipping away.

_Christopher, you idiot. . ._

And then, the dark took him.

* * *

Spock returned from his brief circuit of the survivor's encampment, intending to report his findings to Chris. He had found several vital pieces of information - most of them highly suspicious - and the Captain needed to know about them as soon as possible.

As he approached Chris, he saw that the older man was still transfixed upon the girl Vina, and Boyce was already making his report. With two such taxes upon his attention, it would do no good - not to mention being quite rude - to interrupt the captain now. He stood to the side, politely waiting his turn.

Mere moments later, Chris turned in his direction, but instead of bringing Spock into the conversation, as would have been generally expected of him, Chris looked straight through him, then quickly looked back at Vina, who was clearly making to go somewhere.

And then Chris turned on his heel, and followed Vina off into the wastelands, without a word or look of acknowledgment to his First Officer in training.

_Most peculiar. . ._

"Doctor," he called, as close to worried as he ever let himself be in public, "May I ask where they are going?"

"Oh, there you are," said Boyce, dryly, "I think they're going to see some kind of energy source or something - to explain why everyone here has such perfect bio-readings."

"But that is impossible, Doctor."

"Impossible? But I scanned them myself, Cadet - I am not mistaken. Every person in this camp has absolutely perfect health. I checked it twice." Boyce waved a tricorder at him.

"I am aware of your professionalism, Doctor, I am merely saying that your readings are wrong somehow." He handed over his own tricorder. "Here are my readings of the spring behind the last tent over there." He gestured to the rear of the encampment. "The water therein contains truly shocking levels of cadmium, lead, barium, uranium, and seventeen other toxic metals."

Boyce frowned at the readout. "In other words - all the signs point to massive fallout contamination."

"It appears so, Doctor. Aside from trace amounts of colloidal copper, that spring produces absolutely nothing beneficial. There is no way any known humanoid species, let alone Terrans from Earth, could survive after three weeks of ingesting such water, never mind eighteen years. Not without far more sophisticated filtering apparatus than they have available."

The doctor's frown deepened. "But. . . Spock. . . this readout says the water is completely potable."

"What?" He took the tricorder back, and as he expected, the screen showed the elevated levels of heavy metals he had detected. "I do not understand."

Boyce's frown turned to a highly concerned grimace.

"And there is more," Spock continued, "No food-quality plants exist within five hundred meters, no mammalian or insectoid life exists at all, and the very dust of this world is so laden with toxins that simply breathing here, without a filter mask, would probably kill an average Human in no more than eight months."

" _Something_ is wrong here, Spock." Boyce growled, then gestured for the tricorder back.

"I agree." He handed it to him, watching as confusion warred with almost morbid curiosity on the doctor's face. "The question is, what?"

"Quite."

Boyce turned to the nearest tent, making to scan it with the tricorder, when abruptly, the settlement disappeared.

Spock jerked himself to his full height, the shock momentarily breaking his Vulcan reserve. He looked rapidly about, trying to see, trying to _understand_. . .

But everything was gone. The tents, the people, their belongings, even their footprints. . . completely annihilated.

As if they had never been. . .

Boyce was barking orders at the rest of the away team, but Spock was suddenly distracted by a strange tug from one of his _t'hy'la_ bonds. He looked down the path Vina had taken with the Captain, just in time to glimpse Chris himself, limply unconscious, being lifted through a doorway cut in a nearby hill. There were three small humanoid creatures carrying him. Vina was nowhere to be seen.

"There!" he yelled, pointing, but surprised at how calm he actually sounded, "It was all a trick, an illusion! They have the Captain!"

Shass saw where he was pointing, and ran with the rest of the security team, to try and retrieve their leader.

Spock made one step to follow, but held back almost immediately, the meaning of the danger all at once made clear to him.

_Full sensory projections! They must be! It means no action, no reaction, no information got by any outward sense, is certain. They could be running straight into a wall and never see it. . ._

But they did not. He heard and saw the phaser fire they directed at the door through which Pike had gone. They fired again, and again, increasing their phaser settings every time, but still the door remained unaffected. It appeared to be made of a metal quite impervious to phaser blasts.

 _And yet - we do not_ _**know** _ _that. . ._

There was no way to tell. No way to know what was true or untrue.

Boyce commed the situation up to the _Carrington_ , but did not ask for the immediate beam-out that protocol demanded. Spock did not blame him. Get anywhere near a transporter beam, and one could find oneself materialized within solid rock.

 _Or worse_. . .

 _No_ outward sense was safe.

But. . . perhaps. . . the _inward_ sense was not so.

_Tyanna?_

_Yes?_ Her reply was very worried, for the communication bond meant she had felt all his empathic projections.

_Are you in a sedentary position?_

_Did you just ask if I was sitting down?_

_Ah. . . . . yes. . . . . ._

A strange, twisted laughter came from her end of the bond.

_This is not the moment for humor, Spock._

He let her feel his confusion.

_I. . . do not see the humor. . ._

_Nevermind. Yes, I am sitting down._

_We must meld._

_Oh. . ._ she was instantly serious again _Okay. . . uh. . . how? Usually you have to touch me for that to work. . ._

 _ **You**_ _must initiate it. Reach out as you have seen me do. . ._ He shifted the communication bond to get her closer to the place on his _katra_ where she must go.

Her reaching was tentative, but strong. It took mere moments for her mind to navigate the maze of his outer shields, and then, with a sudden drop he felt in the pit of his stomach, she arrived inside his mind. His hearing blurred, and his vision doubled - he was now looking at the interior of Transporter Room Three, as well as the still-unfolding _contretemps_ here on the surface.

He closed his eyes, and focused upon bringing the meld into focus. It was strange. . . so very strange. . . to be doing this without physical contact. . . Nevertheless, in a few seconds, he had it well in hand.

Now, for the experiment. . .

_My friend, you must turn this meld inside-out._

_Like I did that first time we. . ._

_Yes._

_But why?_

_The captain's abductors are capable of projecting full sensory illusions._

_Oh. . . oh_ _**no** _ _. . ._

A black chill of horror wavered through the meld.

_Indeed._

_It means we can't. . . there's no way to_ _**know** _ _. . ._

_That is precisely why you must invert the bond - and probably two or three times, to make sure._

_But. . ._ she hesitated _I. . . I don't know. . ._

He did not blame her for her reluctance. To do such delicate mental gymnastics was dangerous at the best of times. To do it in this situation was risking existential disassociation, or even full psychic breakage.

_Tyanna. You must. It is the only way to detect the illusions. And if it is successful, we might possibly even break through them._

_But. . . I might. . ._

_I trust you._

How strange. He had not realized until that moment that he did trust her. There were very few in his life that he had ever trusted, and no one quite as much as this.

She smiled, feeling the strength of his confidence.

 _Okay then. . . here we go. . ._ she took a steadying breath, and laid hold upon the structure of their minds. Slowly, the meld formed into a shape different from any other he had yet experienced. It looped into and through itself, once. . . twice. . . three times. . .

Perhaps more, he was no longer able to tell.

 _O. . . kay. . ._ Her mind-voice wavered, distorted through several psychic layers _I. . . I think. . . it's safe to open your eyes. . ._

Carefully, he looked about himself. It was most odd. The surface of Talos 4 looked much as it had a minute ago, but it had a strange depth to it now, an other-dimensionality that simply could not be described or imagined.

_Or replicated._

It was the perfect defense against projected illusions. No false image could exactly duplicate the knot his senses had been tied into. He was seeing through her eyes seeing though his seeing through hers.

_And seeing through yours again._

_Indeed? Have we gone that many levels deep, then?_

_Yes. We're like a Klein bottle existing as a sphere._

_We have four spatial dimensions. . ._

_Yep. Imaginary imaginations, that's us._

Floating in such a metaphysical state - looking inward looking outward to look inward looking outward again - if he was attentive, and if they could maintain such a precarious mental posture, he was certain he could detect imposed sensory information.

His ordinary sensory input was certainly far different from normal.

He took a step and staggered, as though profoundly drunk.

_Spock! Are you alright?_

_Yes, I believe so._ He leaned on a nearby boulder to regain his balance. _How is your situation?_

The meld allowed him to see all that she saw, naturally, but the connection was so tangled up he dared not focus on her end, lest he lose control of his own.

_I am alright, I think. So long as neither of us attempts anything too strenuous, I think I ought to be able to maintain -_

Her mental voice cut off abruptly.

_Tyanna!_

She returned, just as abruptly.

_I am here! What is the matter?_

_Where did you go?_

_I turned to speak to Cadet Winters. He spoke to me, and I had to respond._

_Oh._ He sagged in relief. _This connection is so strange I was not sure. . ._

_Indeed. My strange behavior is why he spoke to me. He is looking at me suspiciously even now. I must explain to him what is going on._

_Yes, quite. And to the rest of the crew, after you have told him._

_I shall do my best. . ._

_Fiona has the conn. Explain to her, and she can tell the rest of the ship._

_It is worth a try. . ._

_Meanwhile, I must explain it to the away team._

_**And** _ _attempt to plan a course of action to retrieve the Captain._

_Quite._

_I don't envy you that job. . ._

_Indeed. Before we begin, tell me, can you see any evidence of illusions near you?_

_No. Can you?_

He looked about himself again, more steadily now. Everything still had that far-away, unreal look, coming as it did through such a contorted bond. Everything except the top of the hill where Pike had disappeared. . .

_Not directly near, no, but I think there is something. . . wrong. . . about the stone outcropping where they took Chris._

_Wrong?_

_Yes. It looks normal._

Her mind gave a short, sardonic laugh. _What a thing to have to rely on._

_Odd that they have the one of us they clearly wanted, and have not merely scraped the rest us off their planet yet. They could, I am sure._

_I think they might not care about us at the moment. They have Pike, after all. They might be focused on him for a bit._

_Possibly. We may have a grace period - even if just a few minutes - to try to at least inform everyone of the situation._

_Which we should do now. . ._

By now _he_ could feel the strange look that Winters was giving her.

_Yes. . ._

Once again, her mind blinked out of his consciousness - quite unlike the gentle muting that usually happened during a shift of attention inside a meld - but this time he was expecting it, and it did not frighten him.

His shipmates had stopped attempting to shoot the door Pike had been taken through a full minute ago, and now they had all filtered back to the ersatz survivor encampment.

To a man, they were all looking at him, curious, confused, and afraid. Even Boyce looked as though he had a few choice words to say to him.

He took a calming breath.

Well. This was going to take some explaining. . .

* * *

_Gwennie stood before him, dressed in nebulous gown of pink with a navy blue slip. There was no context for why she was here, she just suddenly was. A deep, thrumming music started, and, grinning at him, she began to dance. . . in a way some distant part of his brain knew the real Gwyn couldn't, and, what was more, never would have. . ._

~It would appear, Magistrate, that the specimen is highly mentally deficient.~

~This is no surprise, as it was lured here by simulated messages.~

_Slowly, horrifically, the image of Gwennie morphed, turning green and lumpen, her sinuous movements turning into a grotesque parody of a dance, then finally the image resolved into an enormous Venus fly trap. The spikes of its gaping, grasping mouth approached ominously towards him. . ._

~But it is not our usual type of specimen, nonetheless. When it entered our biosphere, the sense from its brain was one of goodness, even nobility.~

~A mere consequence of the form our illusions took.~

_He was about to be devoured, when the whole scene dissolved into a clammy grey mist, and he was walking down the streets of San Francisco through the fog. A foghorn lowed in the distance, and a few bells tolled nearby. He walked on and on, endlessly. A pale, yellowish light appeared some meters ahead. He began to run towards it, hoping, he knew not for what, but it was useless. He could not get any closer to the light, but still he ran faster and faster, and on and on, and all of a sudden he was not running, he was falling. . ._

~Are we certain, Magistrate, that there are not suggestions that this creature is different than any we have seen before?~

~Circumstances would indicate that such is an impossibility.~

_. . . he was falling down Alice's rabbit hole, where there were upside-down teacups that didn't spill, and men that looked like birds and monkeys, wavering in and out of madness, like the hatter or the doormouse. . ._

~Ought we to wake it?~

~No. Soon it will wake itself, and then you will observe just how primitive it truly is."

_. . . three blind mice, three blind mice. . . they all ran after the farmer's wife, she cut off their tails with a carving knife, did you ever - WAKE UP!_

Chris snapped awake, disoriented, but suddenly hyper-aware of everything around him.

 _Vina - Gwennie - danger!_ His mind raced as he looked around half-frantically.

He was on an oddly shaped bunk, in some sort of cell, underground, with one wall consisting of a transparent block. Three small, but large-headed aliens stood outside it, speaking about him - no. . . _at_ him. . . no. . . they were speaking _into_ him.

~As you can see, the creature is only just now realizing that the encampment and survivors were only an illusion placed in his and his people's minds.~

_Telepathy, then. I can hear you, and you can hear me._

He stood swiftly, and advanced on the small beings, angry, thwarted, and confused all at once.

The foremost of the aliens raised his brows a little, and gave a small smirk.

~You will now observe the primitive fear/threat reaction. It begins with boasting, of strength and weapons, etc., and will end with the specimen throwing itself against the transparency.~

They knew what he was going to do, but he didn't care. He pounded with his fists against the electronically reinforced plastic barrier. It zinged his skin when he touched it, but that only spurred him on.

"If you were in here, you would fight too!" he yelled, his stomach churning like it usually did after he woke up from being stunned, "You know what my ship can do, what it _will_ do to you if you don't let me out. Our intentions are peaceful, but we _will_ fight in self-defense! Always!"

The little alien looked incongruously pleased.

~We will soon be able to begin the experiment.~

The alien and his entourage turned and walked down the long corridor.

Despite the sudden terror that bloomed in his belly at the thought of being experimented on, Pike called after them.

"There's a way out of any cage! I'll find it!"

A quiet mocking thought echoed back at him.

~Quick adaptability. That is good. . .~

* * *

"So, let me see if I understand you, Lieutenant Commander. Those people we just saw, _right here_ , with their differing bio-signals, different voices, different faces, realistically tattered clothing and barely preserved belongings, right down to the completely logical construction of their encampment - was _an illusion_? We just _imagined_ it all?"

"Yes doctor. A perfect illusion, placed in our minds by this planet's actual inhabitants."

"It had to have been more than that, Spock," said Shass, wonderingly. "We weren't just seeing things, we were each seeing exactly what we _wanted_ to see."

"It is logical that we would. Any telepath strong enough to project such complete illusions would have to be strong enough to deep-read the mind it was projecting into - otherwise the illusions would not be nearly as convincing."

"I understand the danger of this," said Shass, "Such mental projections integrate perfectly with reality, and can come from any of our memories, thoughts, even desires. They are as solid as the rocks around us and just as impossible to ignore."

"Succinctly put, Lieutenant," said Spock.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander," Shass quirked a wry antennae in his direction, "But what I don't understand is why they wanted the Captain."

"I don't much care, Wutay," sighed Boyce, his tone uncharacteristically cold. "All I know is, we're going to get him back."

"I heartily concur, my good doctor."

"And you're _sure_ you have a way to detect these illusions now?" asked Boyce, turning back to Spock, still quite worried - and with good reason.

"For the moment, yes sir. But there is no way to know how long St. John and I will be able to maintain such a delicate and complicated connection."

"Well, then we'd better do something quickly. You say St. John can detect these illusions too?"

"Yes sir."

"Then communicate with her and have her arrange for the Geology Department's plasma drill to be beamed down. Then tell her to go to the bridge, and prepare to transfer ship's power down to it. We're going to try to get through that door." The doctor gestured at the granite knoll.

"We might have already gotten through it, sir. I can only tell that there is an illusion there - I cannot break through it."

Boyce looked very grim. "Yet, Spock. You can't see thought it _yet_. I propose we put stress on the illusion by blasting the area - into slag if we have to."

Spock doubted this would work, but they had little time and few options. "Very well sir. May I make a small corollary request?"

"Of course."

"While asking for the plasma drill, I would suggest a beam down of some air filter masks and a survival kit each. If we are to be on the surface of this planet much longer, there are sure to be ill effects from exposure."

For a moment Boyce became wholly the excellent doctor he was again, instead of part doctor, part reluctant commander of a group of green cadets. "A good idea Spock. Better make sure we each get at least four cc's of hyronalin too. It isn't in the standard ESS kit, even though it should be."

"Acknowledged sir."

Spock turned away from his team, the better to focus on communicating with Ty.

_Tyanna?_

_Yes?_

_It appears we have the beginnings of a plan. . ._

* * *

The stomach-churning aftermath of being stunned, mixed with that doubly sickening jolt of fear, had led to the obvious, extremely unpleasant conclusion. Chris looked up from the corner he had hastily chosen, hoping the cell had _something_ in it besides a bed. Like a replicator, full wet bar, and private water shower. . .

_Heh. Unlikely._

But there _was_ a niche, kitty-corner from where he was standing. He hadn't noticed it before because. . . well. . . he told himself that overwhelming nausea was an excuse for missing almost anything.

_Almost._

Inspection showed it to be a hygiene station - basic, primitive, and completely open, but _there_. Uncaring that he was still in full view of the transparent wall, he tore off his shirt, and turned the water spigot on as far as it would go, bathing his head, and rinsing his mouth.

The water wasn't nearly cold enough, and was unpleasantly mineral-scented, but it did the job. He relaxed under the flow of it for a good three minutes, until his stomach was fully under his control again.

One more gargle with the faintly rotten-egg tasting water, and he stood up.

He hadn't paid much attention to the hallway yet, but he had to get out of here somehow, and bashing through the clear barrier was the obvious first choice. But would such a drastic action be noticed? He shook as much water as he could off his hair, and dried his face with his tunic before slipping it back on.

He approached the wall and looked out, rapping on it one last time with his fists. It only hurt his skin and did no more than wobble a tiny bit.

As the wobble subsided, he could make out other cells - in two parallel lines down a long, long hallway. There was only one bend in the line, so far as he could see, and coincidentally, he was in one of two cells that fronted on the exact point of the bend. From this vantage he could see down both branches of the place, and it was far longer, in both directions, than he had thought at first.

It would be difficult to get past more than three or four cells, he thought, if they were occupied. Especially if his escape turned out to be noisy. But most of the cubicles seemed to be empty, darkened rooms, the occupants either absent or sleeping.

_Or dead. . ._

Some of the ones he could see were definitely occupied though.

Individually, these cells made little sense, but taken all in all, it was perfectly clear what was going on. He was the newest inmate in a zoo. . .

He scanned the cells, trying to fathom an exit strategy.

Several cubicles had misty atmospheres, thus most inmates in them were rendered invisible, but on one foggy window, he saw four huge sluglike creatures slowly sliming their way across the transparent barrier, seemingly immune to the electrical zap it emitted.

One was full of water. He could only see a sliver of it from this angle, but he spotted a flick of a fin or a tentacle or two nonetheless.

Two were brightly lit, but those looked even more empty than the dark ones. Chris furrowed his brow and decided not to speculate.

The cell immediately adjacent to his own was full of what looked like flowering cacti with long, exposed roots.

Two other nearby cells shone with a dim, unsettling red light, and contained blobby, floating creatures, not unlike the Mistarr bobbers that had been discovered on Jupiter.

There wasn't too much to worry about from any of these. Most likely none of them would even notice him if he walked past. But four cells - two close by and two he could just barely see, held big, hulking monsters. Even if the barriers kept them restrained, if any of them reacted to his escape - when he had figured out _how_ , of course - then the ruckus they made could alert the Talosians. And if _he_ could batter through the electrified barrier, then it was possible it might not keep all of the prisoners restrained, if they were riled up in any way. . .

He turned his back on the corridor. Even if the bunk was a sufficient battering ram, which it probably wasn't, the hallways weren't a viable exit strategy, given how little he had to work with. He began to inspect the rear wall of his cell. Only the corners were of solid stone - the whole back wall was built with what looked like overlapping titanium sheets, each one four or five centimeters thick.

It looked cobbled together, but it also looked impenetrable. Ridiculous overkill for a Human, of course, but a completely logical precaution if his kidnappers had been dealing with those otherworldly brutes out there. . .

The metal blocks were dulled somewhat - with what he assumed was age - but there was not a single sign of corrosion or other vulnerabilities.

He knew that had to be untrue. There was a weak point in every cell - always. There simply HAD to be a maintenance doorway hidden somewh-

_-ere safely on the hilly grasslands of an alien world._

_The sky was a strange pinkish purple, and a gas giant hung there, looming mightily, with other planets, like stars, scattered across the dome of the heavens._

_The rocks were a cool bluish grey, even in the warm light of the late afternoon. The wind cut a cold chill across his face. There was an old, ruined fortress before him, its gilded minarets reflecting the pink from the sundown._

_He nearly called for someone named "Spock" and for two others named "Myra" and "Abe". He did not know who they were, but somehow a flood of emotions ran through him._

_"Come! Quickly, oh, hurry!"_

_He looked about, frantically trying to remember what this reminded him of. . ._

_"Hurry! It's deserted - there will be weapons and perhaps food."_

_A woman came rushing up to him, robed in an odd dress of pale brocade, and wearing a strangely frightened expression. It was. . . flat, almost theatrical. . ._

_"Oh, please, follow me!"_

_She took his hand and pulled him towards the fortress._

_"Wait!" He yanked his hand back, "This is Rigel VII."_

_"We must hide! Quickly!"_

_"I. . . I was in a cage. . . in a sort of a zoo. . . I must still be there. . . But. . ."_

_"Come on!"_

_He took the strange woman by the shoulders, "_ _**You** _ _weren't on Rigel VII - this must be a dream, another illusion! They've reached into my mind and built this from my memories - "_

_A loud, inhuman roar echoed across the scene._

_"The Kalar!" The woman clutched at her throat in the approved fashion of stage actresses._

_He clenched his teeth, fighting against the haze in his mind, "It's happening just as it did before - this has all happened before - it's not real - it isn't real Gw - "_

_He stopped. This was not Gwyn. But she_ _**looked** _ _like Gwyn. . ._

_Wait. . . who was Gwyn, again?_

_The woman gave him a pained expression, turned and ran to the fortress._

_There seemed nothing to do but follow her._

_Everything he passed triggered a memory - distant but clear. The old door, the stone steps, the ruined courtyard, the rusted weapons. . ._

_Suddenly his arm hurt, as though a long gash had been opened in it, but there was no blood. Then his hip throbbed, just like it had after someone named Boyce had put it back in joint. . ._

_He shook himself, fighting back fear, disgust, pain, sorrow, shame, and a dozen more emotions he_ _**remembered** _ _feeling, but he was reasonably certain he was_ _**not** _ _feeling right now._

_He wasn't feeling these things, and yet the emotions were there. . ._

What is happening to me?

_He picked his way across the small courtyard, spotting Vina -_

Vina! Her name is Vina!

_\- spotting Vina crouching behind the old rusted out mechanism that used to raise the portcullis. He ran over to her, ignoring the growls of the man-beast which was still tailing them._

_"Vina! Your name_ _**is** _ _Vina, isn't it? Longer hair, different dress, but the same woman."_

_She nodded distractedly, "Yes, but. . . oh, it's going to get us!" She cowered behind an enormous pulley, shaking like a child afraid of the dark. He crouched on his haunches next to her._

_"But you're just a dream, like the rest of this. Why did they show me you again, and not someone else?"_

_She did not answer, for she was transfixed in terror. The same Kalar warrior he had killed to protect Kerrie, Spock and Nielsen, had burst through the old rotted doorway, and was searching for them._

_The surge of triumph he felt at remembering his cadet's names quickly faded as Vina tugged on his sleeve._

_"Quick!" she whispered, "If you kill it while it's not looking we might - "_

_"But this is a_ _**dream** _ _, Vina - how can a dream hurt us?"_

 _"It doesn't_ _**matter** _ _," she hissed, more scared than ever, "You'll still_ _**feel** _ _every moment._ _**That's** _ _what matters. You have to kill it - like you did before. Or it will kill us, and we will feel every second of it."_

_The great brute ripped a side door off its hinges, and roared when he found the room empty._

_Chris spotted a large spiked mace a few feet away that he hadn't noticed before. He was almost sure that in fact it had not been there a few moments ago. More illusions, trying to trap him. . . He resisted the urge to pick it up, and turned back to Vina. "No! Tell my jailors that I'm not their pet - that I won't be some animal performing for its dinner!"_

_"Please! You don't know - "_

_And then, it found them._

_It stood stock still for a few moments, sizing them up._

_Shielding Vina with his body, they sidled out of the passage, towards a pile of weapons and a stone staircase. He did not want to fight, but if the matter was forced - as it looked like it was about to be - he wanted room and a possible way for Vina to escape._

_Then, with another, even louder roar, the Kalar charged._

_He lunged for the nearest weapon - oddly, it was another mace - and only just managed to parry the blow. He snatched up a small shield, and the fight was on._

_Things went much as they had before. When it came to armed combat, he was no brawler, but when he was sufficiently motivated, he could be as vicious as any Kalar, and twice as agile._

_They had traded several blows, taking them across the courtyard and back, when finally he got behind the Kalar's defenses, and with a mighty blow that broke his rusty mace, he managed to knock the brute into one of the overgrown drainage ditches._

_It was but a moment's reprieve, he knew, but he rushed back over to Vina, where she had fallen in a heap near the base of the stairs. When he reached out to steady her, she looked up at him, half frightened, half reproachful._

_The expression in her eyes was all too believable. . ._

_"Why are you frightened, Vina? It's not real._ _**You** _ _aren't real. "_

 _"I am the way you_ _**imagined** _ _me!" She squirmed in his grasp, looking both terrified and frustrated._

_He furrowed his brows, for he had noticed something else - her voice had changed from just a few minutes ago. She was sounding more and more like Gwyn. . ._

_"Who are you?" He pulled her upright, "And why are you acting like this is real for you too - "_

_With a roar, the Kalar was upon them again._

_Vina wrenched herself out of his grasp, and bolted up the stairs._

_The brute must have decided to take care of the more vulnerable prey first, for he shoved Chris aside and went for Vina. On the open landing, he caught her, threw down his battle axe, and attempted to tear her limb from limb._

_Chris searched frantically for a weapon. The pile that had been here before had been taken away, and all he could find now was a short sword and a broken spear. It was all they had given him to work with. . ._

_In desperation, he threw the sword with all his strength._

_With a swish and a dull thud, it embedded itself into the Kalar's lower back. It roared in pain and anger, turning around to come at him again, but staggering from the blow._

_Vina, who had been fighting back this whole time, took her opportunity. She shoved the brute with all her might, and he fell down the stairs._

_Just in time, Chris planted the broken spear upright beneath the falling monster, and with one final keening roar, he was impaled -_

Reality wavered back into existence. It took a moment for Chris to get his bearings, but he was, indeed, back in the stone cell.

_Or rather, I never left. . ._

"It's over!" said a relieved voice quite near to him. Slim, pale arms went around his neck, and a soft blond head rested on his shoulder.

Vina.

She was here, in this reality too. What was it about this particular image of a woman that they kept pushing her towards him?

She gasped a little, and backed away from him. He looked out to see what had startled her, and just caught a glimpse of the Talosians disappearing down the hallway.

They had been watching.

It was not surprising, but it _was_ infuriating.

He turned back to her, trying valiantly to keep the fury from his voice.

He did not entirely succeed.

"Why are you here?"

"To please you."

Her hair and voice were back the way they had been in the survivor's settlement, but she was no longer dressed in rags. Instead, she wore the same silvery, glimmering metallic cloth that his captors had been wearing.

"Are you real?"

"As real as you wish."

Her tone was serious, but almost childlike in its simplicity.

"No." He turned away, worry and disgust warring in his mind. "No, that's not any answer. I've never met you before, never even imagined you."

She smiled, half eagerly. "Perhaps. . . they made me out of dreams you've forgotten."

"What, and. . ."

He was about to bring up her uncanny resemblance to Gwynedd, but no. . . if she was real, she didn't need to know that, and if she was just an illusion, then his captors undoubtedly already knew.

". . .and dressed you in the same clothes they wear?"

"Well. . ." She smirked a little, and at last she seemed like an adult. "I have to wear _something_. . . don't I?"

Her playful glance was unmistakable.

"Or, I can wear whatever you wish - _be_ anything you wish."

She took a step towards him, but he forestalled any more falsely affectionate overtures.

"So they can see how their _specimen_ performs? They want to see how I'd react to someone like you, is that it?"

She ignored his question, returning to her pleading.

"Don't you have a dream, something. . . something you've always wanted very badly?"

The creepy, voyeuristic nature of the situation suddenly bore down upon him. If these creatures kidnapped specimens for scientific experimentation, he could perhaps understand. He would not condone it, but it would be at least understandable. The trouble was, none of this felt scientific.

But it did feel manipulative.

What did they _want_ from him?

"Do they do more than watch? Do they feel everything I feel when they are in my mind? Is that what's going on here?" he asked, not really expecting her to answer.

She didn't.

"You can have anything - anything you want - just imagine it and it will happen." She reached up and turned his face towards hers, "I can become any woman you want - any woman you've ever wanted. Please, let me please you."

There was something about her expression that made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

But he _had_ to have information, and, dream woman or not, she was his only source.

"Yes. Yes, you can please me. You can tell me about them."

She looked hopeful for a moment, and then terribly disappointed, but she did not answer.

"Is there any way I can keep them from probing my mind, from using my thoughts against me?"

She cast her eyes down, shifting away from him.

"That makes you afraid. Why? Does that mean there _is_ a way?"

She looked up, giving him a pained expression, and she vigorously shook her head, "Oh, you're a _fool_."

He sighed, completely done with this charade.

"Well, since you're not real, there isn't much point in continuing this conversation, is there?" he told her sternly, and turning his back on her, he returned to the wall of metal blocks, trying to find the way out he _knew_ must be there. . .

* * *

The laser drill had been beamed down in three pieces. Shass and his security team were assembling it under Fiona's instruction. Colt was handing out survival packs and filter masks, while Boyce made the rounds with the hyronalin.

Spock stood a few paces away, contemplating the situation.

Tyanna had managed to report to Fiona, and she in turn told the comm. officer to make a ship-wide notification. Hopefully they had been in time, there had been no hidden illusions, and now the entire crew of the _Carrington_ knew what was going on.

When she had understood the danger, Fiona ceded the bridge to Ty, in the hopes that since she could more fully detect any illusions, she would be a more effective Commander on deck. Fiona then choose to go down to the surface herself, as Boyce was no strategist, and probably could use support.

Colt had heard the Captain was the one kidnapped, and had insisted upon being part of the reinforcement team.

Ty had accompanied the party to the transporter room, made sure there were no illusions present, and had beamed the group out herself.

Spock had been glad to see both Jen and Fiona, as each was highly competent, and the nature of his current connection with Tyanna was putting a great deal of strain on his own practical functionality at the moment.

As he focused upon the illusion that hid the Captain from them, he wondered just what effect the laser drill would have upon it - if any. Certainly mental projections took energy to produce, and energy overloading was an indisputably effective method of interference in most recorded cases. . . but the texture of this illusion was such that he feared it would not be an "energy mirror" like most projected illusions he had encountered.

The Realdi, and several other types of Vulcan experts, were proficient in consensual mental imaging. This did not look at all like the arts of the Dream Singers or the Thought Dancers he had previously seen. It also bore little resemblance to the myriad of visual tricks he had seen telepathically gifted illusionists perform - and he had encountered a wide range of such entertainers while traveling with his parents.

The surface of this illusion was too smooth, the core of it was too solid, and the smell of it was too liquid. The closest he could come to describing it to himself would be that this illusion was an "energy sponge".

In terms of mental projections, it was probably a heat sink.

Very likely the laser would have no effect.

But, of course, they had to try.

"All circuits engaged Mr. Spock," said Shass, coming over to him, "Can you tell St. John we're ready?"

He nodded, but did not answer vocally.

_Tyanna?_

_Yes?_

_We are ready for the power transfer._

_Alright._ He distantly heard her give orders to the bridge crew. _But before you start, I want to tell you something._

_Go ahead._

_I've been re-scanning the planet, and looking at the information through this meld, so I know they haven't altered it in any way. The surface toxicity is a great deal higher than we read before, and there are several completely uninhabitable areas. But the most important thing is, I think I've pinpointed their main power supply. It's an almost ludicrous distance underground, but we_ _**can** _ _beam there, if the laser drill doesn't work._

Then, she very carefully gave him the beaming co-ordinates, "just in case", she said.

 _Acknowledged. Is there still no evidence of illusions aboard the_ Carrington _?_

_None that I can see. Perhaps they don't care about us. Maybe they think we're only bugs, not sentient beings._

_Possibly. However, I would not like to risk our lives upon that. And even if we are bugs to them, they could swat us out of the sky at any moment._

He heard her sigh. _Agreed._

_You have done well, Ty._

_Thank you. Ready for the power transfer?_

_Yes._

_Confirmed._ He heard her give orders again.

The drill powered up with a weird throbbing shriek. The beam it emitted _swish-swished_ like the sound of fast-moving water, then sped up to a harsh whine as the first contact with the door showered sparks over the whole area.

In Spock's eyes, the illusion shook briefly, then began flashing red, as though from heat.

Shass focused the beam more tightly, and called for more power. The blasting beam glowed more intensely, and the pace of the whine it made sped even further.

The door glowed a brighter red, but the illusion did not shake again.

Fiona called again for more power, but by this time Spock was certain it would do no good - the illusion was not the type that could be influenced by outside power surges.

But. . . perhaps. . .

A strange idea occurred to him.

Boyce yelled to disengage, but Spock reached out with his mind, running it along the pathway of the laser beam, and using the power of it to boost his telepathic force. Yes. . . he could _feel_ a weak spot there, behind the illusion, but he could not see it. Boldly, he telepathically rammed his fist into the wall of it.

In his mind, the illusion shattered, flinging great shards of the delicate meld with Ty all over their shared mindscape.

He shrieked, in such pain it could not be described, and he fell face-first in the dust.

* * *

_He knelt beside I-Chaya, holding back the great sobs that threatened to overtake him. He wondered if it was Human to also feel relief at this moment, for the sehlat had just saved his life. The torn, bloody body of the le-matya lay nearby, but he paid it no mind. I-Chaya was dying, and Oekon help him, he felt responsible. . ._

~This one is different from the others.~

_It was not such a long trip home from the Great Shi'oren that his mother was not able to tell that he had been dawdling on the way. She was also wise enough to know that he had probably been engaged in unsafe maneuvers with his brand new speeder bike. Yet she said nothing, and the next week, a professional grade helmet and safety outfit arrived. . ._

~Indeed. It is more advanced, but far stranger, magistrate.~

 _He had often wondered about the female Vulcan mind, and how it differed from the male, but he did not think that T'Pring, in the midst of her heat, was likely the best of examples. He had touched her mind before, but he had not_ _**read** _ _it until now, and there was nothing here but dark, growling hunger, and a horrible, tearing passion. With a stab of fear, he wondered if his mind would be so repulsive during his own Time. . ._

~It nearly overthrew our illusion. Is it a better specimen?~

_It was the first time he had ever undressed a woman, and could recall the event afterward. It had been strange - not only for that reason - but also because of the ineffable satisfaction he had experienced from such small things, like removing Ty's boots, or folding her dress neatly before turning back to her, or the sight of her face, smiling up at him. . ._

_Strange. . ._

_He knew he was dreaming, but unlike his usual lucid dreams, he could not direct what he wished to happen next. . ._

~No. It does not meet the required criteria as well as the other.~

_He handed Tyanna a towel as she came out of his shower. Taking it, she grinned mischievously at him, snapping it at his backside as he went to use the shower himself. It was a very small shower, or else he was certain Ty would insist upon them utilizing it at the same time. . ._

_And unlike any dream he had ever experienced, there was a strangely detached narrator. . ._

~Nevertheless, it might still be usefu-

_The voice broke off suddenly, but the dream continued._

_His wash was brief, but refreshing._

_Tyanna, instead of dressing after her shower, as was logical, was in fact lounging on his bunk when he emerged. She wore nothing but a towel. . ._

_It was highly illogical._

_But not unwelcome. . . after all, he had nothing on but a towel himself._

_He gathered her into his arms, and was about to kiss her, when her expression turned from playful to almost excessively worried._

_"Spock, can you hear me?"_

_His brow furrowed._

_"Yes, of course."_

_"Well, you have to wake up."_

_"I. . . . I am not asleep. . ."_

_She shook her head vigorously, "No, you aren't asleep. Your_ katra _is fractured. My fault, I think."_

_"No. . . our fault, if it is the fault of anyone. But there is more here than that, I am almost sure. . ."_

_"Yes." She pushed away from him in the dream, but simultaneously her mind slid closer. "You have to draw your mind back together. When the meld broke apart, they started directing your thoughts - reading them, poking and prying. . ."_

_"Are they doing the same to you?"_

_"Probably. I don't particularly care. The meld breakdown sent me into a faint too, and now all I want to do is bring us both out of it."_

_"I do not feel fractured. . ."_

_"Well, you are. I can tell."_

_"Are you speaking to me through a meld?"_

_"Yes. I managed to reconnect a plain meld, and put up as strong a shield around us as I know how to make. I don't know if they can hear us or not, but it almost doesn't matter. You_ _**have** _ _to wake yourself up, Spock. Or they'll probably just keep you in this coma."_

_"Why?"_

_"I'm not sure. Right before the meld broke, I saw something - just a little bit - of their plans. All I'm sure of is that it is based heavily upon living other people's dreams."_

_Those dreams had not been true dreams, then. Instead, they had been_ _**paging through** _ _his memories, flipping from one thing to the next, back and forth._

_He shivered, though he was not cold. "Inducing dreams, and then living them along with the subject?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Horrible."_

_"Normally I'd point out differences in alien cultures, but in this case I think I wholeheartedly agree."_

_His dream-self sighed, and drawing the towel more more securely about himself, he sat down at his dream-desk. "What method would you suggest we employ to get us out of here?"_

_"You had an idea, I think? You projected your mind along the power beam, then struck out_ _**emotionally** _ _, didn't you?"_

_"I. . . suppose I did. Yes. I must have."_

_"Maybe their weakness is not energetic, but emotional."_

_Even deep in a coma, he hesitated at the implications of this. "You. . . would suggest that I. . . we. . ."_

_"'Get medieval on their asses', yes."_

_In the dream, he grinned. "That is not how I was going to phrase it."_

_"I know."_

_"But you_ _**are** _ _suggesting that I use my primitive Vulcan emotions to break their hold on us?"_

 _"Well, I've felt a little bit of what you have locked away in there - " She gently poked his_ katra _, "And if any set of emotions is strong enough to exploit a tactical weakness in what amounts to a telepathic army - yours are. For sure."_

_"I would. . . need your help. . ."_

_"But of course, baby." She pressed her mouth to his. Given that this was a dream, he hesitated to call it a kiss._

_"It would mean directing a great river of thoughts that. . . well. . . would not be civilized. There are bound to be a great deal that are not at all. . . nice."_

_"Kidnapping and mental slavery isn't "nice", Spock. I'll deal with however much of your primitive emotions I need to if it means striking back against this barbarity."_

_He shrugged, smiling like a Human, "You do have a way with words, my friend. Very well. . ."_

_He closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out in several directions at once. He quickly encountered Tyanna's mental wall. Very slowly, he eased thoguh it, and into the howling turmoil that lay beyond. . ._

~Turn the dream -

"Here I am!"

_"This is not what - "_

_~Have you considered. . .~_

"Spock, turn around!"

_"I cannot see. . ."_

_Memories and feelings and projections whipped past him in a huge tornado. He grit his teeth, then leapt into the whirling vortex, letting the funnel take him down. . . down. . . down to the core of his being. . ._

_He landed with a great crash. The impact shattered his consciousness, breaking all his emotional restraints. His_ i'ki _and_ so'ht _burst forth, like twin leviathans, Gog and Magog, overtaking even the storm with their great flood._

_There was a roar, so loud it deafened him, and then, a thunderous silence._

_The riot of thoughts was quashed, but the silence was no better, for he was in pieces, so fractured he could not find himself._

_And then a wall drifted into him. A quiet, flat space, herding all the pieces back into a coherent whole. Four, five, six, then dozens more joined in the effort, banking the shores of the flooding river of his mind._

He lay in the stream, collecting himself.

 _A pearly-grey tendril of thought soothingly brushed his cheek, then retreated, leaving him secure in the knowledge that they had succeeded. At the moment, he was unsure at_ _**what** _ _, but they had succeeded._

_The river drained away, back behind the ramparts of his mind, reconnecting it to his unconsciousness._

~. . . appear that the interference is not coming from the initial specimen, but rather from one we had not previously -

_The voice again stopped abruptly, echoing through the dream space._

Then he opened his eyes, and he was floating in a warm darkness, surrounded by faintly golden starlight. He looked down, and there was his _katra_. A long golden thread was retreating into the distance - it must be the temporary bond with Tyanna.

A distant echo whispered past him.

_Wake up, Spock. . . come back to me. . ._

But he was not ready to fully awaken just yet. The great turmoil they had used to shake free of the aliens' mind control had left him exhausted. A nice, placid float right outside the orb of his soul was just the moment of quiet healing he needed.

He closed his eyes again.

The peace became complete.

And in the silence, there was a still, small voice.

 _"Why are you frightened, Vina? It's not real._ _**You** _ _aren't real."_

 _"I am the way you_ _**imagined** _ _me!"_

His eyes snapped open.

It was a mental echo coming from one of his _t'hy'la_ bonds. It was not a bond he had been aware of before, but. . . yes. . . he was certain it was the same one he had felt the strange tug from when the Captain had been taken.

He had a _t'hy'la_ bond with Christopher.

It should not have been a surprise, but it was.

He floated around his _katra_ , gently reaching out and touching the bond, carefully. He found it open and quite functional, but delicate, as all bonds with Humans were unless they were properly developed.

_Fascinating. . ._

It was placed a full quarter hemisphere away from the marriage-bond sector of his mind, as was proper. It almost directly paralleled the familial bond, which was quite surprising. It bore the red-gold tinge characteristic of every Human bond he knew of, and, though it was weak, it was surprisingly deeply rooted.

Both of which were only to be expected. . . but he had _not_ expected it.

Still - it lifted his spirits. There was something here. . . something useful. . .

An idea zipped through his mind, so fast that it shocked him awake.

Boyce was looking down at him, a thoroughly worried look on his face.

He sat up, back in the real world, at last.

"The bond with St. John broke, Doctor. I apologize for the spectacle."

Boyce harrumphed, even as the rest of the team collectively sighed in relief. "Well, thanks a bunch for scaring us, ya doof! And way to go losing the one way out of this we might have had - "

"On the contrary, Doctor," he interrupted, interpreting Boyce's anger as reactionary care, "I believe that this incident has shown me another way to help Christopher."

"Oh, it has, has it?"

"Yes. I believe it might be possible to communicate with him directly."

The doctor blinked. The rest of the team also registered doubtful surprise.

"I think you'd better explain that one, Spock."

He stood, allowing himself a small sigh as he brushed himself free of dust.

"I intend to, Doctor."

* * *

Chris had tested every block of metal within his reach, and there was no way out. No access panel, no secret door.

But, fortunately or unfortunately, he knew he was being tricked.

He sat on the bunk and stared at the wall, willing his mind to see through the illusions.

Vina was silent though all of this, standing in a corner next to a granite pillar. Suddenly, she came forward, and sat down next to him.

He stood up, whirling, and glared at her.

She responded only with a pleading look, utterly unconcerned at his anger, almost as though she didn't even understand it.

Into the silence, she said, "Perhaps, if you asked me some questions, I could answer."

He snorted quietly. She had not answered any questions yet. Why was she suddenly willing to do so?

_Can you hear me this way, Vina?_

She didn't flinch, didn't react at all.

He relented.

"How far can they control my mind?"

"If I tell you, will you think of some dream you've had and let me live it with you?" Her sullen tone took her back into the realm of teenager.

Her fluctuating personality was not only disorienting, it was more than a little suspicious. Even a great actress - which she certainly was not - would have immense difficulty shifting her personality as often and as drastically as Vina did.

He did not know if that meant she was an illusion, but that _was_ what it seemed to indicate.

"Perhaps."

He would make no promises to this girl. If she was real, then there were many questions she needed to answer before he trusted her. If she _was_ merely a projection by the aliens to get him to react as he would have to any woman who looked so much like Gwyn. . . well. . . he didn't know what he _would_ do, but he certainly was not going to trust her.

Or touch her, for that matter. . .

She settled herself on the oddly shaped bunk, patting the space beside her and beckoning to him.

He minutely shook his head, keeping to his feet.

She sighed a little, but finally gave him information he could use.

"They. . . can't actually _make_ you do anything you don't want to do - "

"But they'll try to trick me with their illusions?"

"Yes, and they can. . . punish you if you don't co-operate, you'll find out about that. . ."

She sounded so defeated at this revelation that he softened a little bit. He sat down next to her.

"Did they ever live on the surface of this planet?"

She nodded.

"Why did they move underground?"

"War, thousands of centuries ago."

"That's why it's so barren up there?"

"The planet's only now becoming able to support life again."

"So, the Talosians - "

"They call themselves Crainari."

She had taken on an aspect like a schoolteacher - a fully grown woman speaking to a very small boy.

"Very well," he pushed on with his interrogation, trying to get somewhere despite her constant changes in personality, "The Crainari who survived the fallout found life boring underground, and they concentrated on developing their mental powers?"

"That is a Human way of putting it."

"And how would you put it?"

"When one can no longer explore outwardly, it is logical to explore inwardly."

"Maybe so, but they became obsessed with dreams, didn't they?"

She suddenly reverted to her small child persona, shy and frightened. "Y-yes. . . you see, it's like a drug. A powerful narcotic. Dreams are more important to them than reality. More important than even learning how to repair the technology that maintains their ecosystem. They will feed us, but sometimes _they_ will forget to eat. They just sit. . . all day. . . living the other lives that previous generations left behind in the thought records."

"Or they sit probing the minds of zoo specimens like me."

She sat up, becoming once again the lover who looked like Gwyn, "Oh, you're better than a theater to them. They create an illusion for you, watch you react, and feel your emotions. They have a whole collection of. . . specimens. . ." she gestured outside the barrier to the two long hallways, ". . . descendents of lifeforms brought back long ago from all over this part of the galaxy."

He heard the pleading in her tone, and stood up again. "So, that means they had to have more than one of each creature, didn't they?"

"Please. . ." her voice was once again like it had been in the Rigel illusion. More like Gwyn's than just a moment before.

He was convinced now that she was nothing but an image in his mind.

"They have to have two Humans too, don't they?"

"But - "

"Where do they intend to get the Earth woman?"

She stood up now too, pursuing him, "You. . . you said that if I answered your questions, you would choose a drea- "

He backed up a few paces so she could not touch him. "That was a bargain with something that didn't exist. Remember - "They made me out of dreams you've forgotten", and, "I can become anything you wish". You aren't real, Vina."

Her breath caught in her throat. She approached him again, but did not reach out. Instead, she lifted her head, and looked straight in his eyes.

"But, I am, Christopher. I am as real, and as Human, as you are."

For a second, he almost believed her.

Then she crumpled to the ground, clutching her head and screaming, "No! No, don't, I! . . . . I ca. . . . Ahhhhhhhh!"

The sound and image of her dissolved, leaving behind only the scrap of silvery cloth she had been dressed in.

Shocked, he picked up the flimsy thing.

What were they _doing_? Seven different suspicions whirled about in his head. It was all incredibly confusing.

He stood up, and angrily approached the barrier. The Crainar he expected to find there, was there, smirking.

~If the nourishment we have provided is unappealing, it may appear as any food you care to imagine.~

_What?_

He heard a tiny clink from behind him, and he spun, only to see a small vial of bluish liquid set on the floor, and the thinnest sliver of light from a rapidly closing access panel.

 _I_ _**knew** _ _it!_

He took an involuntary half step towards the vanishing escape route, but then held himself back. As this moment it was clearly impossible to escape, not with his jailor right here, watching him.

He growled, through gritted teeth, "And if I prefer - "

~To starve? You overlook the unpleasant alternative of punishment.~

Mental daggers entered his mind, and sud-

_-denly he was awash in flame as boiling oil was poured over his flesh. In utter agony, he watched his body melt away, only to return to its original shape, so as to live in perpetual torture -_

The illusion stopped, just as abruptly as it had begun.

Slowly, he put his mind back together. He was laying prostrate on the hard concrete floor of his prison. He was breathing hard, but otherwise he felt mostly normal, save that his extremities were numb. He raised a hand to his neck. His throat was sore from screams he didn't remember uttering.

He didn't know if that illusion had lasted a few seconds, or whole years. . .

~From a fable you once heard in childhood. You will now consume the nourishment.~

There was little point in any more resistance. At the moment he could barely muster the will to sit up. It was food, and he needed the strength. The vial was within arm's reach from his position. Propping himself on one elbow, he groped for it, found it, and kicked it back so fast he did not taste it.

Then, what remained of his strength flared into primal hatred, and he flung the container at the Talosian. It shattered into the barrier.

And the creature flinched. It was a half-step back from a missile he knew could not touch him, but it was a reaction.

Pike laughed weakly, "So, that's why you resorted to Hell, eh? You didn't put irresistible hunger in my mind, nor thirst, or anything like that. Because you couldn't, could you? You can't read through hate, can you?"

~If you continue to resist, from deeper in your mind, there are things even more unpleasant.~

Feeling had returned to his legs. He pushed himself upright enough to sit on the bunk.

"Well, well. Not denying it then? That's very interesting."

His jailor continued to ignore him.

~Now, to the female.~

With a stab of guilt, he realized he had forgotten Vina for a minute. Nearly intolerable pain could do that, of course, but all at once he knew something he had not known before.

Vina was real.

They would have just recreated Gwyn if all they wanted was to experience his passion, and they would not have gone to such elaborate trouble, he was sure, if Vina was not a real person.

~As you have conjectured, an Earth vessel did crash on our planet, but with only a single survivor.~

His fists clenched of their own accord. He was hating this experience more and more by the second. He wanted - _needed_ \- to exert some control. "No, let's stay on the first subject, shall we? All I wanted in that moment was to hurt you - to make you pay for how you've hurt me."

~We repaired the survivor's injuries, and found the species. . . interesting.~

"Do primitive thoughts put up a block you can't read through?"

~It became necessary to attract a mate.~

"All right, fine! Let's talk about the girl." He rested his forehead in his hands for a minute, "You seem to be going out of your way to make her attractive, and to make me feel protective."

~This is necessary in order to perpetuate the species.~

"But now it seems you want me to like her too - get to know her, and all that. Why?"

~We wish our specimens to be happy in their new life.~

He choked out a sardonic laugh, "Really? That's a good one. Truly." For a second, he considered slow-clapping, but he hadn't yet recovered sufficient energy. "I haven't heard such a bald-faced lie in a long time." He leaned back gently, rolling his head against the stone wall to stare at the Crainar. "If all you want is for us to conceive a child - or even just have sex. . . there's no reason to make me like her - less reason to try and make me _love_ her. Not unless you plan to start a whole Human community. You want more than just simple breeding, don't you?"

~With the female now properly conditioned -

Anger flared in him again, "You mean properly punished! I'm the one not co-operating, punish me, not her!"

For a moment the creature looked surprised again, but then his expression settled back into smug satisfaction.

~First, an emotional protectiveness. Now, one of sympathy. Excellent.~

He retreated down the transverse hallway.

It was so odd. . .

The Talosian wanted him to react in a primal manner. But the same creature could not read him when he did so.

_Such a strange oxymoron._

Well, _some_ kind of moron, anyway.

Chris smirked -

_\- at the beautiful little copse of trees that surrounded them._

_It was the same sweet, green, intimate little place he had often taken a date in his youth. They were atop a little hill, surrounded by wild gardens, with the spires of Mojave making a charming tableau in the distance._

_"You want some coffee, dear?"_

_Vina was there, kneeling on a picnic blanket._

_By now, he wasn't surprised, and the gentle, soothing remembrances of this place kept him from anger for the moment. He walked over to the other dearly remembered figure in the scene -_

_"Tango, you old devil, you! I'm sorry I don't have any suga-" On a whim, he reached into his pocket, and sure enough - there was a cube of sugar. "They think of everything, don't they?"_

_"I left my thermos hooked on the saddle, would you bring it over, darling?"_

_He sighed, and grabbed the flask, giving Tango one last pat._

_"They read our minds very well. Home, and anything else I want,_ _**if** _ _I co-operate, is that it?"_

_She raised a hand to her temple, "Remember my headaches, dear? I get them when you talk strangely like this."_

_He sighed again, finally sitting down next to her. He handed her the flask._

_"Look, uh. . . I'm sorry they punished you, but we can't let them-"_

_"My, it turned out to be a lovely day, didn't it?"_

_"You know, it's funny," he shook his head, not at all amused, "I've been dreaming of this place, wanting to move back here, for, oh, about ten years now. And not too long ago, I had a talk with the ship's doctor about it. I thought I wanted. . . well. . . what we have here, more or less. A life without frustrations, no responsibilities. And now that I have it, I think I understand the doctor's answer."_

_She smiled over at him, "I do hope you're hungry. These little white sandwiches are your mother's recipe for chicken salad, and these cakes-"_

_"Because you either live life, bruises, skinned knees and all; or you turn your back on it and start dying."_

_Her only answer was the same empty, pleading look he had come to expect. He turned away, standing up to go look at the skyline._

_"Well. At least it's a peaceful illusion. It gives us a chance to rest up."_

_"Oh yes. This is a lovely place to rest."_

_"Yeah. I used to ride through here when I was a kid. It's not as pretty as some of the parks around the big cities, but. . ." He sighed, nodding towards the distant buildings. "That's Mojave. I was born there."_

_"Is that supposed to be news to your wife?"_

_He could hear the smile in her voice, and suddenly the scene wasn't quite as beautiful. He came back over to her, looking at her reproachfully as he sat down._

_"You. . . you're home. You can even stay if you like." Her voice was once again that of a frightened child, not at all like the adult lover she had been a moment before. "And wouldn't it be nice to show. . . the children. . . where you once played?"_

_He didn't answer for a second. She cast her eyes down, and fiddled with the picnic basket._

_"These headaches. They'll be hereditary, you know. Would you wish them on a child? On a whole group of children?"_

_Her hands raised to her temples again. "Foolish."_

_"Is it? Look, first they made me protect you and feel sympathy. And now we have familiar surroundings, a comfortable marriage. . . They don't need all this to promote_ _**passion** _ _, Vina. They want respect, mutual dependance - "_

_"They say, in the olden days, all this was a desert. Nothing but blowing sand and cactus."_

_"But we're not_ _**here** _ _, neither of us. We're in a menagerie, a cage!"_

_"No!"_

_He sighed, and sat back. "I can't help either one of us if you won't give me a chance." She looked at him, troubled, but silent. "You told me that they used fantasies as a narcotic, and that they can't even repair the machines left behind by their ancestors. Is that why they want us? To build a colony of slaves?"_

_"Stop it!" she burst out, angry for the first time, "Don't you care what they'll_ _**do** _ _to us?"_

_He was finally getting to her. Maybe now he could trust her a little bit. . ._

_"Back in my cage it seemed for a couple of seconds that our keeper couldn't read my thoughts. Do emotions like hate, keeping hate in your mind - does that block off our mind from them?"_

_Reluctantly, she nodded. "Yes. . . they can't read though. . . primitive emotion. But. . . but you can't keep it up for long enough. I've tried. They keep at you, year after year, tricking and punishing. . . " Her voice was very quiet, but she sounded far more real now. As though she was at last the true woman, unaffected by all the illusions. "And. . . they won. They own me. I know. . . you must hate me for that. . ."_

_"No. . ." he took her hand, voluntarily touching her for the first time. "I don't hate you. I can guess what it was like."_

_She gripped his hand, as though hungry for the contact, "That's not enough, don't you see? They read my thoughts, my feelings -_ _**my** _ _dreams of what would be the perfect man. I can't help but love you." She looked up at him, a very honest look in her eyes. "That's why they picked you. And they expect you to feel the same way I feel about it."_

_"If they can read my mind, then they know I'm attracted to you. I was from the first moment I saw you in the survivor's camp."_

_"But?"_

_"But I'm a Starfleet captain. I can't just forget years of training - decades of habits. I can't give up the way I think, what I know - right and wrong. Living forever in fantasies is just. . . living a lie. No more palatable to me than fighting the same battles, over and over."_

_"I begin to see why none of this has worked for you. . ." She removed her hand from his, beginning to pack up the picnic basket. "You've been home, at peace, and fighting, like on Rigel - none of these things is new to you."_

_Suddenly, she sat up straighter, like she had just thought of something._

_She had._

_"A person's strongest dreams are always about what he_ _**can't** _ _do."_

_"Now Vina. . ."_

_"But you said it yourself - a ship's captain always has to be so formal, so. . . decent and honest and proper. You must wonder what it would be like to forget all that. . ." She ran a hand up his sleev-_

_-e was sitting in a huge stone palace, dressed in brilliantly luxurious robes. There was an enormous feast on the table in front of him._

_Then he looked up. . ._

_Exotic music played, and a dancer writhed before him, barely dressed, and highly suggestive. Her green skin flashed with beads of sweat, even as her costume glittered with dangling gemstones._

_An Orion woman, in full seduction-heat._

_He could smell the pheromones from here. . ._

_But even with all of this, he could see something familiar about her, something more than the random erotic dream any man might have. . ._

_"Vina?"_

_The dancer's eyes met his, and it was true. It was Vina, transformed, like she had once said she could be, into any woman he had ever dreamed of. . ._

_"Nice place you have here, Mr. Pike."_

_He suddenly realized he was not alone here. He shared the sight of a writhing, aroused Vina with two other men, one on each side of him._

_"Glistening green," one of them said, openly gawking at the spectacle in front of him, "Almost like secret dreams a bored ship captain might have."_

_"Funny how they are on this planet," the other one leered with an insidious drawl, "They actually like being taken advantage of."_

_Lies! It was all lies! There was nothing here for him. . . it was only an illusion. . ._

_Another wave of pheromones hit him, making him feel faint._

_The world narrowed to the sight of Vina's eyes residing in another woman's body. . ._

_"Suppose you had all of space to choose from. And this was only one small sample."_

_"Wouldn't you say it was worth a man's soul?"_

_It was like having an angel and a devil on your shoulders, except they were both demons._

_He threw down the jeweled goblet in his hand, desperate to keep hold on his sanity. He lept up then, unable to take any more of this. . . this. . ._

_Degradation._

_There wasn't any other word for it._

_They were better than this, both himself and Vina._

_He stalked angrily through several corridors of the great palace, not seeing a stone of it. It scarcely mattered, of course. They had placed this in his mind, just like everything else. It wasn't real._

_Suddenly, the distant music stopped._

_He turned around. The open corridor he had just walked through was now a solid wall of rock. He was now in a small box-shaped room, with nothing but a torch on a wall. . ._

_He spun around, frantically confused -_

_Until Vina appeared. Then he understood._

_She was still in her Orion getup, still producing those irresistible pheromones the species was famous for._

_"You wanted me alone, Captain. Well, here I am. And no one else can see. . ." She stepped close to him. . . too close. . . her pheromones were clouding his mind. . . stopping all but one thought, one impulse. . ._

_He was backed against the wall. His fingers clawed at the stone._

Not like this, Vina. . . please. . .

_She ran a fingertip across his forehead, wiping away his perspiration._

No. . . don't. . .

_"I am here. . . just for you. . ."_

_Through gritted teeth, and a harsh groan, he fell into the swirling miasma of her desire. . ._

* * *

"So you see, we could transport directly down to where the captain is being held, doctor. It would be dangerous, but no more so than staying here, wasting energy trying to break through an illusion that cannot be broken in this way."

Boyce looked thoughtful. "But, can't they control which buttons the transporter operator would push? How can we be sure we won't get beamed straight out into space?"

"We cannot. However, St. John reports that so far, no illusions have been seen on board the ship."

"But she can't detect them now, with that weird bond broken, right?"

"No, but it is either this, or tell the _Carrington_ to retreat to safety."

"Leaving us here on our own."

"Exactly."

Boyce did not like his plan, but it was clear he liked the thought of being stranded on this desolate planet even less.

"And you're _sure_ that you can contact Pike through your telepathic link thing?"

"I am reasonably certain, yes."

"What about the underground tunnels? It's got to be a labyrinth down there. How are you going to even _find_ Pike?"

"That the link _will_ aid with, even if I cannot find a way to directly speak with him."

The doctor nodded reluctantly. "Alright." he flipped open his communicator. "Winters?"

" _Landing party, come in._ "

"Lock on to Lieutenant Commander Spock, Lieutenant Wutay, and Cadets Foran and Green, do you copy?"

" _Acknowledged, Commander Boyce_."

"Set up a site-to-site transport from our location to these coordinates -" The doctor repeated the numbers Spock had given him, "- and transport on my mark."

" _Yes sir._ "

Shass and the two other Security members arranged themselves around Spock.

"Energize."

Spock felt the tingle of transport begin - but it was almost immediately apparent that something was wrong. Foran and Green were not transporting, but the transfer beam was too loud for only two sites to have engaged. . .

The last thing Spock heard before dissolution was Boyce's frantic shout of - "The women!"

Then he and Shass arrived, not in an unknown labyrinth of underground tunnels, but in Transporter Room Three, with Winters looking very surprised that they were here.

"What - " he began.

"Not now Winters," Spock said brusquely, not having time to explain, "Transporter Room Three to bridge. Bridge come in."

The comm. was silent.

He looked at Shass for a horrified second.

Then, at the same moment, they ran for the turbolift.

If Spock understood Human idioms at all, "shit" had just "gotten real".

* * *

The fog in his head faded surprisingly quickly, as did the mindlessly passionate kiss he was somehow giving Vina.

She pushed away from him - he did not know why - and howled to their invisible audience, "No! Why didn't you let me _try_?"

He scarcely had time to be confused, or even relieved, for at the same moment, the _whine-swish_ of Ferderation transporter beams sounded behind him, and suddenly Shay and Colt were in the cell too.

"What happened? Where are we? Captain?" Fiona sounded confused, but composed.

"Captain, are you all right?" Jen was just confused.

"It's not fair, you don't need _them_." Vina was viciously petulant.

After a moment of universal confusion, he spotted a phaser in Fiona's hip holster. He gestured peremptorily for her to hand it to him, which after a moment, she did.

The power reading showed zero.

"Blast it! Empty."

Fiona's eyes widened, "It was fully charged when we -"

He pointed at Jen, "Colt, your communicator!"

She opened her comm. quickly, frantically hailing the _Carrington_.

Finally, she looked up, defeated. "It's dead sir. I can't get through. I don't even read a signal. . ."

"We weren't supposed to be transported, Captain," said Shay, still composed, but beginning to be curious as well as confused. "It was Spock and Wutay who were trying to get here." She glanced around the cell, briefly looking the sulking Vina up and down. "What. . .?"

"Be quiet," he said, far more harshly than he intended, "Don't say anything more." He handed Shay's phaser back to her. "I have to focus. . ."

"Captain?"

"I have to fill my mind with images of bashing their heads in!"

"They?" said a bewildered Jen, "Who? What are they?"

They had brought his cadets into this mess. They were endangering two of his best and brightest. At _least_ two. . . He had no idea what they doing to everyone else. The whole crew of the _Carrington_ was in danger. . .

He _would_ break through the illusions. They _would_ escape this cage.

_I hate their bloated, misshapen heads! They're ugly, cruel, evil beasts!_

Reality gave a tiny flicker around him, but that was all.

Vina broke into his thoughts, "How long you can keep thinking such thoughts? A few minutes? An hour? It does no good, I tell you!"

She made to come over to him, but Colt got in the way.

"Leave him alone."

"He doesn't _need_ you, he's already picked me."

"I don't understand, picked you for what?"

"Now, there's a _fine_ choice for intelligent offspring!"

"Offspring? As in children?"

Chris broke in, unable to concentrate during such bickering, "No, 'offspring' as in 'they want me for an Adam'!" Now, Vina, all of you, please, _let me alone_."

But Fiona, observant as ever, had just made the connection. "Vina?" She looked hard at the silver-clad girl, "I saw the crew manifest of the _Columbia_ , and there _was_ a Vina on it. . . but as an _adult_ crewman. And that was eighteen years ago. . ."

"You're no better choice," Vina snapped back, sullenly, "They'd have better luck crossing him with a computer."

"Please, can you just - "

They all fell silent as their jailor approached.

"It's not fair!" Vina wailed, "I did as you asked!"

The Crainar ignored her, speaking directly to him.

~Since you resist the present specimen, you now have a selection.~

 _A_ _**selection** _ _? Oh. . . oh_ _**no** _ _. . ._

Dread filled his stomach. He tried to channel it into rage.

"I'll get out of this zoo somehow, and get to you. Is your blood red like ours? I'm going to find out."

~Each of the two new specimens has qualities in her favor. The female called "Fiona Shay" has the superior mind, and would produce highly intelligent children.~

He glanced at Shay. She was glaring at the creature which had just dismissed her reproductive agency so coolly.

~She may present an unemotional exterior, but this is largely a pretense, given that -

"It's called "professionalism", you butt-headed Mengele!"

Chris smirked. _You tell 'em, Cadet._

~. . . given that she often has fantasies involving authority figures such as yourself.~

Fiona crossed her arms, "Says the creature that can't even talk with its mouth. You must crap out of it."

The Crainar looked mildly confused, but nonplussed.

~The other new arrival - "Jennifer Colt" - has been attracted to you for some time. She considers you unreachable, but in your present setting, this is quite likely to change.~

Colt had been gaping at the scene as it played out before her, stunned at such heartless misogyny, but now her dauntless sense of humor came to her rescue. She sneered at their jailor with a twisted wit he'd never seen from her before.

"You know, I'd _love_ to hear more of this, but your headlungs are distracting me."

Chris couldn't help but smile. His cadets didn't take shite.

~The factors in her favor are youth and strength - as well as unusually strong female drives.~

As Colt blushed with fury, the need for his own anger slammed rudely back into him.

"You'll find my thought more interesting I thi- Gnaaahhh!"

The stabbing, all-encompassing pain from the illusion of Hell returned to his mind, but this time without the visuals. Nonetheless, he staggered under the weight of it.

It only lasted a few seconds. It felt closer to forever.

When it finally eased, he was leaning bonelessly against the transparent barrier. The electric field zapped from it and into his body, making his joints ache, and his eyes twitch uncontrollably.

It felt positively pleasant in comparison.

~Wrong thinking is punishable. Right thinking will be as quickly rewarded. You will find it an effective combination.~

With this, their jailor departed.

Shay and Jen came forward then, lifting him from his slouch against the wall, and guiding him to the bunk.

"Th-thank you," he whispered, "You did a good job, both of you. . . I. . . I'll, explain more. . . later. . . "

And then - he could not help it - he drifted off into an uneasy, but welcome, sleep.

* * *

Spock and Shass arrived safely on the bridge, only to find it in chaos.

Unsurprisingly, Shassan went directly to Sillu, who was heroically manning the quite uncharacteristically disorderly Comm station.

Spock was content to see Cadet Hl'get had taken the conn after Tyanna had fainted, but there was little other good news.

Tyanna herself had recovered, and was now trying to get the Science station to stop displaying what looked like the entirety of their computer's database, flickering in rapid succession.

Every other station was reporting catastrophic signal fadeouts; Ops could get no clear read of the planet's surface any longer; the helm was not responding; the intercraft comm. was patchy at best; the inertial compensator was threatening to shut off; and the anti-grav generators showed signs of internal failure. Even the little information able to be relayed from Engineering was bad - of the few intelligible words that came across the comm., "plasma relays" and "antimatter containment" were among the clearest.

Hl'get, upon seeing a superior officer, stood up to give a report, her relief clear even on Tellarite features.

"Cost/benefit analysis suggested that a retreat was in order, Lieutenant Commander. But when we attempted to do so, all our systems went haywire, as you can see." She gestured around the bridge, then pointed directly at the science station. "St. John does not seem to see the same set of breakdowns that we do, so we may assume that most if not all of these problems are illusory, but with no way of knowing which is which, I would say we are in nearly as much trouble as we would be if we did not know that illusions were involved."

"Thank you Cadet Hl'get," Spock nodded at her, and gestured that she should re-take the conn. "Now, Ensign St. John, please report."

Ty sighed in frustration, then stood and faced him. "Hl'get pretty much summed it up. The only thing I have to add is that I think my altered perception of the illusions is a residual effect of the meld with you." She looked around for a moment, then pointed at the helm. "Do you see that console sparking from a meltdown?"

The helm was perfectly intact.

"No."

She nodded. "Neither do I. But K'kett was sitting there just a minute ago, and now she's in sickbay with burns on her arms."

"The sparks got through her fur?"

Caitian fur had several special qualities, one of which was a natural fire retardant.

"They did."

"Did you _see_ the burns?"

Ty nodded, an incredulous yet doubtful look on her face, "Yes, I did. I didn't see sparks, but I saw the burns."

"So, which is the illusion? The console fire or the burns?"

"That's the question, isn't it? But I have a theory."

"I thought you might. I assume it is related to a conjecture as to why this effect is not universal? Why we are seeing some of the illusions but not others?"

"It is. I think our meld broke us out of their mind _control_ , not their _influence_."

He blinked, "Please, explain."

"We still see all the passive illusions - my guess is they don't need deep-read access to make those work - but none of the active illusions influence us any more."

"And so, a burning console. . ."

"Would not register, because it interacts on more than a superficial sensory level. Pain, fear, etc. It also might have been a specific illusion for K'kett, which we are no longer able to see. I think they can't force you and I to feel what they want us to feel, or project our desires anymore, but they _can_ still make us see and hear what they want us to see and hear."

The bridge was far quieter than it had been a minute ago. All the cadets were listening intently to this exchange.

"So, it is K'kett's burns that are fake."

"I think so," she sighed, "We still have to stop this, Spock. Their fake sensory input is still able to control every system on the ship."

"I know. And I have a plan."

She smiled. "I thought you might."

He raised his head and addressed the whole bridge, "For now, the standing order is - Do nothing. Do not push buttons, do not attempt to repair broken machinery. These creatures can control everything you sense, so do not rely on your senses. Acknowledge."

The bridge replied with a chorus of "aye sir's".

Spock nodded, then gestured to Tyanna. "Would you join me in the Captain's office, Ensign?"

"Certainly, sir."

As soon as the door closed behind them, he sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Pike's desk.

"I have a _t'hy'la_ bond with Christopher, Ty."

"You do?" She eased into the chair next to his.

"Yes. I was not aware of it before, but now I am almost certain I can access him, speak to him, and. . . with his permission and your help, of course. . . transfer the same emotions that broke us out of their mind control over to him."

"Do you. . . think that will work? Would he agree to such a thing?"

"I think it highly possible."

"But, do you think removing any active illusions can help him? We don't know what they're doing to him down there. . ."

"Correct. We do not know. But I do know that whatever the results of our actions, it could only be an improvement."

Ty sighed, thinking. Then she nodded. "All right. You'll need to meld with me, then?"

"Yes." He readjusted his chair's placement so he could comfortably reach her meld-points.

Right before he touched her, she murmured, "I hope this works. . ."

He nodded solemnly, "So do I."

* * *

_He floated in that strange velvet space between sleeping and waking, within the no-man's-land that existed twixt thought and action._

_It was dark here, heavy and immovable, but if he let go any efforts to escape, he was still somehow aware of his real-world surroundings. . ._

_He was lying on his right side, on the odd little bunk, underground in the Talosian zoo. Vina was sitting at the foot of the bunk, facing away from him, silently staring out of the transparent barrier that held them all prisoner. Colt and Shay were sitting side by side along the front of the bunk, their heads together, whispering unintelligibly. The sight was washed out and gray, but somehow he was certain it was true._

_Whenever he pushed at this vision, it went blurry, but if he relaxed, the image became clear._

_And it was not a dream, nor an imposed vision from his captors. He was_ _**sure** _ _._

_He desperately held on to this fact._

_And then, in the whirring recesses of his mind, something emerged. . ._

_It was line, not of thought, but of color. Gradually, it turned the grayscale scene before him into a monochromatic image, using only various shades of forest green._

_When the color had fully overtaken the picture, there came a voice, as though from far away, but very clear._

_"Captain?"_

_Within his mind, Pike flinched. Was this yet another intrusion? His mind felt injured, quite battered in fact. He could not take any more violent impositions. . ._

_"Captain?"_

_But this was a gentle voice, not a heartless combine harvester, here to tear out his memories for its own use. This sounded gentle. . . peaceful. . . benevolent. . ._

_"Christopher?"_

_And it was Spock's voice. . ._

_In his mind Chris turned around, and of a sudden he was in a featureless cubic room of glowing pale grey, and Spock stood before him, looking normal except now he was the one all in shades of forest green._

_"Are you well, Captain?"_

_Chris tried not to think about the logic of this interaction, desperately attempting to "roll with it"._

_"Yes. I think so. I'm not_ _**happy** _ _, mind, but I think I'll be okay. . ."_

_The image of Spock nodded, "Good. I am here, as I expect you have guessed, to try and facilitate your escape."_

_"But. . . are you actually here?"_

_"Yes, Captain. I am in your mind. I hope you will retroactively give me permission to be here?"_

_"If you can get us out of this cage, then I give you permission to do just about anything!"_

_"I surmised as much. . ." his head tilted in query, "Us?"_

_"Yes. Shay and Colt are here now too. And there_ _ **is**_ _actually a woman survivor from the_ Columbia _. . . it's a long story. . ."_

_"I believe I understand."_

_Chris still could only think vague, relaxed thoughts, but one question suddenly leaped out at him, "Spock. . . how. . . how will you. . ?"_

_Spock's image shrugged in its quintessentially Vulcan manner, "Tyanna and I have discovered from our own experiences with these creatures that Vulcan emotions can overwhelm the mind control inherent in many - if not most - of their projections."_

_Chris blinked, hope suddenly flooding the backwaters of his mind, "So. . . you'll. . . what will you do?"_

_"I will transfer my Vulcan emotions briefly into your mind. With help from Tyanna, we will channel them at the places in your mind that are being controlled. This should give you some sort of ability to work past the active illusions, though it is doubtful that it will automatically remove any passive illusions."_

_Slowly, he began to comprehend. "Is St. John in this. . . dream? Meld? Whatever this is?_

_A shimmer of bright robin's egg blue passed over the image of Spock, and for a second he saw St. John's image instead._

_"I am here sir," her voice said, gently._

_Then the image of Spock returned. "We have little time, Christopher. Is there anything you need to tell us before we begin?"_

_"No. . ." his mind wandered, then snapped almost into consciousness, "Yes! I discovered that hate blocks their influence! They cannot read my mind when I fill it with primitive thoughts!"_

_Spock crossed his arms, exactly like he would do in real life, "I do not think it is hate, captain. Hate may be involved, but it is also fear, lust, hunger, and passion. What St. John and I discovered is that they cannot contend against the primal_ _**survival** _ _instinct. I theorize that your discovery means this race has evolved to such an extent, and have lived within their dreams for so long, that they no longer have the core will to adapt. They may drift along in their contentment, but they cannot grow any longer. They most likely have forgotten the most basic essentials of life, and so they cannot read a mind that is only thinking in base language."_

_"The language of survival."_

_"Precisely, captain."_

_"Interesting."_

_"Assuredly, but perhaps it is not the time to indulge in further speculation. . ."_

_"Agreed." Pike steeled himself, "What do you need me to do?"_

_"Very little. You will experience a large influx of imposed emotions. It is very likely that they will manifest visually as colors, and possibly as weather events - tornados, floods, lightening strikes, dust storms, etc. Then you will feel spread out, and probably very disassociated - and this is when St. John will help you put yourself back together."_

_"Al. . . alright. . ." he responded, feeling unashamedly nervous at the whole suggestion. "Uhm. . . what do I do after? If it works, I mean."_

_"After, it is hoped that you will be able to see past any active illusions, and manage to complete your escape on your own terms."_

_"And if I can't?"_

_Spock paused, then said, slowly, "We. . . will "cross that bridge when we come to it", I think."_

_He took a deep breath and held it - metaphorically, of course - his body was still asleep, and breathing evenly. "Okay," he exhaled noisily, "Let's do it."_

_Spock nodded, and silently disappeared._

_The little cubic room faded, leaving Pike floating in the heavy blackness of the Human aether._

_A tiny spark whirred into being, far out in front of him._

_It lit the dreamspace a livid blue._

_Then it exploded in a cascade of electrical arcs, filling his mind with zapping great gouts of energy, back and forth, some so close to him his hair stood absolutely on end._

_The great cracks of thunder shook him to his very core. . ._

_And then the dream turned red. ._

_At first it was the liquid red of blood, pumping and surging through an artery, but then he was thrown upon a beach, where all the sand, and the sky, and the rocks were also blood red._

_Then the wind kicked up, and suddenly it all became a cyclone of redness, sharp, scraping, stabbing, breathing, screaming. . ._

_Then he was through, and everything was purple. Great columns of crystal surrounded him, stable for only one moment before they all collapsed in unison, crushing him. . ._

_Then his world was golden. He walked through a pixelated land of tiny yellow cubes; trees and rocks and land and sky all one color, and all made of gold. A cliff appeared before him, and he could not stop himself from walking over it. . ._

_He fell into a green mist. Great scything blades made of clear green jade whooshed and crashed just out range of his limbs. He ran, and dodged as well as he could, but there was no avoiding them all. A great jade broadsword swung from the sky, splitting him in half._

_His soul cracked, shivering into a hundred billion fragments._

_The pieces lay all in a heap, but suddenly they were once again floating in the aether of his memories, each part of him transformed into a crystaline prism._

_A great beam of white light struck the shards of him, polarizing the pieces, drawing them back together. They each pulled their own way, resisting, but the light called. . ._

_Called. . . ._

_Called. . . . ._

He was whole, and awake again.

He was in the Crainar zoo, laying on the bunk in his cage, his eyes closed.

Very slowly, very carefully, he opened them, just the tiniest bit.

Vina was still sitting at the foot of the bunk, and Shay and Colt were still conferring in front of it.

Everything looked exactly as it had in his mind's eye.

Except for one thing. . .

The cell's maintenance hatch was open, and a Crainar was stealthily approaching Shay. It clearly thought it was invisible, but still made the effort to remain as quiet as possible. There was no time to wonder why, because he could _see_ it, could see the way out, at last.

Chris struggled to keep his breathing even, to give no sign that he was aware of what was happening.

The Crainar was right next to Fiona, but she could not see him. It reached out a hand to take her phaser. . .

Even as gratitude surged in Pike's chest, a roar of anger grew in his mouth. He lunged forward, making full use of the element of surprise his sudden freedom afforded.

There was a momentary stunned silence from the women, and a frightened squeak from the Talosian, a blur, a clutch, and then the creature's fragile neck was in his grasp, its attenuated body either stunned or frightened into immovability. It all happened so fast that the deed was done before even Vina could cry out, which she did, in protest,

"Oh don't hurt him! They don't _mean_ to be evil!"

Chris sneered in sarcastic pleasure, "Yes, I've had some examples of how good they are."

The small, weakling figure in his grip began to morph then. . . into a great furred brute, the twin of which was imprisoned not five cells away from this one. The women all gasped, but Chris was not taken in, for his hands were still around a thin, fragile throat. . . he could feel that the creature had not changed. . . he _was_ free of their mind control!

"Stop this illusion!" he shouted in his triumph, "Or I'll twist your head off!"

Slowly, reluctantly, the image shrank down to the unimposing figure he now had so at his mercy.

~Your. . . ship. . .~

For the first time, the Crainar attempted to move his mouth in formation with its thought transmissions. No sound came from its vocal cords, but it was clear great effort was being exerted to communicate.

~Release. . . me. . . or. . . we'll. . . destroy. . . it. . .~

Vina gasped, "He's not bluffing, Captain. With the illusions they can make your crew hit all the wrong buttons, to make it crash or blow itself up. . ."

"They can, but they won't." He braced one hand heavily on the Crainar's neck, reaching out with the other to request Shay's phaser.

Slowly, she handed it to him. "But it's dead. . ."

He looked briefly at her, then down at the creature he held, "Shall we bet? I'm gambling you're too intelligent to kill for no reason at all." He flipped the intensity to maximum, and directed a short burst at the transparent barrier. "And I'm also wagering that I've just blown a hole in the wall so big we could walk right out of it."

Slowly, deliberately, he aimed the phaser down at the Crainar.

"Now then. Do you want to bet I won't shoot you in the head?"

Reality wavered, twisting into the shape it was meant to take.

There was now a huge hole in the transparent wall.

Colt, Shay and Vina all looked at each other, unsure of what all was happening. He gestured them all out the gap, then stood up, yanking his hostage to his feet.

"Now, don't try anything."

The Crainar was silent as he and Pike followed Vina and the cadets down the hallway of prisoners.

As they passed cell after cell, Chris could barely keep himself from freeing every last one of the zoo inmates, but he knew, deep down, that now was not the time for such heroics. At the moment, they were lucky just to have escaped themselves.

There would be a time for justice later.

And besides, their escape was by no means certain yet. . .

In silence, and a dim light that spoke so strongly of age that it was not necessary to explain how ancient the technology was, they ascended the lift to the surface. . .

* * *

Phil felt a strange _tearing_ sensation in his mind. It did not hurt, not exactly, but it did feel as though something was breaking. . .

He looked up at the little granite knoll. It wavered, twisting in time with the feeling in his brain.

Then it was over, and the hill looked entirely different.

Rivulets of congealed lava poured out from the entirely destroyed crest. Nearby plants were scorched, and even the smell on the air shifted, to the stink of ozone and vaporized stone.

Gathering himself together, he gestured at the remaining security team.

Slowly, they approached the broken little hilltop. . .

* * *

The mechanism that would take them all the way to the top of the elevator shaft was broken off almost a foot below the top of the granite hill.

There was no question why.

The whole top of the place had been sheared off.

Chris was certain it had been in pursuit of his rescue, and Fiona confirmed it.

"Spock said we might have gotten through." She looked up at the gray-clouded sky above, "Looks like we did a bit more than that. . ."

Colt, then Shay and Vina hopped out of the lift. He lifted the Crainar out himself, and then holstered the phaser he still held, letting the creature go free.

Somehow, it felt safe to do so. The constant eerie pressure he had been feeling for so long now, was suddenly gone. He didn't know why, but in some way he was sure that this final confrontation would take place on level footing.

~Yes, Christopher, it will.~

Vina was waiting for him as he exited the lift. And it was her voice he heard in his head.

 _What?. . . Vina!. . . ._ He stared at her.

~Tell them to go, Chris. Please. I want to talk to you. Alone. Really alone, this time.~

He was so in shock that he almost fell getting down from the hillside.

Bewilderedly, he told Boyce, "Take the cadets. Go back to the ship." He looked back at Vina, more confused now than he ever remembered being in his life, "I'll. . . be up shortly."

The doctor was staring at the Crainar, hesitant to trust anything about the situation. And well he should be.

"We'll. . . be safe, I'm assuming?"

Pike nodded, looking pointedly at Vina. "I give you my word."

Reluctantly, Boyce nodded, and commed for a beam-out.

As soon as they were gone, he turned to Vina, not knowing if he ought to be angry or not.

"We're alone. _Now_ , will you explain?"

She smiled sadly ~Not quite alone yet, Christopher.~ She turned and looked at the Crainar ~Thank you, Zial'kin, that is all for now.~

The little alien looked up at him for a moment, a compassionate look in his eyes at last.

~You were our last hope.~

Then he trudged back up the hill, and disappeared down the elevator shaft.

Pike looked back at Vina.

"Last hope? What did he mean?"

He saw a great deal of conflict behind Vina's eyes. Finally, she said ~There are only six of them left, and no women.~

"No wom. . . what are you getting at? Why would _**I**_ be their hope?"

~Had you fallen in love with me, they would have established us here, on the surface. They would have given us everything we needed to heal this place - to make it a living world again. They were going to give us their culture too - have us live the lives they failed to live.~

"And. . ."

~Speak in your mind Chris. Please. It would make me more confortable telling you. . . all this. . .~

She did not approach him, though it looked like she wanted to.

He crossed his arms across his chest.

_Fine. Happy now?_

~No.~

_Can you tell me how you learned to speak like them?_

~Exposure to their telepathy opens up the innate Human ability for telepathy. I still cannot project illusions as well as they do, but for all practical purposes, I have become one of them. . .~

He blinked, holding back rage, pain, and a strange feeling he did not know how to describe.

 _One of. . .? Were you_ _**helping** _ _them in this?_

~Please understand - I have been here so long. . . alone. I had forgotten. . . ~

He clenched his jaw. _What had you forgotten?_

~My Humanity, I suppose you could say. I had forgotten what free will and moral agency meant to me before I came here.~

_And now?_

~Now, I remember that they once meant something to me. Now, I know that they mean the world, and life and limb to _you_. I won't take them away from you. And I won't let the Crainari do so either.~

 _**Let** _ _them?_

~Do you not yet understand, Christopher? They do what I _ask_ them to do. Insofar as government can exist among only seven beings, I am. . . their leader, I suppose.~

 _Their_ _**leader?** _

~Yes, women always were their leadership. I think they developed from a form of insect - they had a well-established hive mind even before they had such strong telepathy. I'm sort of a "first among equals". They still have the superior mental ability, but they are gradually teaching me. They were delighted when I found you.~

 _So. . ._ His head whirled with the possibilities. _It was_ _ **you**_ _who. . . called us here?_

~Yes. They have a subspace transmitter that can carry a mental signal. They send out. . . feelers. . . all over the galaxy. It is difficult to project an illusion along the signal, but it is possible to. . . explore.~

_All the times I felt strange on Gestus VIII. . . and after, on the bridge. . ._

~Yes. Gestus was when I found you. I picked up on your intentions of coming to this area, and you. . . you are so. . . so. . . perfect. . . so absolutely perfect for me that I. . . . . . I could not resist an attempt. . .~

 _An attempt at seducing me?_ He shivered at the remembrance of her as an Orion. _Or even raping me? What was that for?_

~You still don't understand, I see. I am here _alone_ , Chris. Six companions who do nothing but dream all day is no company. There is no conversation, no give and take. They are not my friends, they are both my subordinates and my masters. And, besides, they will. . . not live forever. They would never admit it to you, but it is nonetheless true. The youngest one among them has twenty years at the most. I am scarcely forty.~

 _You are_ _**not** _ _forty. . ._

~But, I am. . .~

The image of her slowly changed, from nearly his ideal of perfection, into a shrunken woman, gray, with a hunched back, twisted limbs, and great scars that disfigured almost every appendage.

~When they found me in the wreckage of the _Columbia_ , I was barely alive. Pieces of my body were so damaged that it was impossible for them to tell what their original form was supposed to have been. They had never seen a Human. They had no guide to putting me back together.~

He took a step towards her, in sudden pity. She forestalled him.

~Despite my appearance, I am in excellent health. I'll probably live to be a hundred, if not more. I have many years ahead of me. They will be spent in total isolation. I ask you to contemplate that.~

He hardly knew where to begin.

_But. . . why do you not come back with us? It is what the rest of the crew is expecting, I am sure._

He was no longer certain he wanted to rescue her, but he had to make the offer, at least.

He did not expect her response.

~No. I must stay here. To go with you would be. . . dangerous.~

He took another step towards her. _Your appearance is nothing, Vina. We have doctors, replicators, medical knowledge. . . you could be back to a normal body in less than three months._

~You think it is my _appearance_ that is the issue? It isn't. Not in the least.~

_Then what. . ._

~I had forgotten what it was to be Human. I had forgotten what it meant to have a companion. Then I found you. And I remembered something.~

_What did you remember?_

~That I. . . I wanted a baby.~

_Is THAT what all this was for?_

~You think that is too much to ask?~

 _I think it is a far greater thing to ask than anyone should. Not without. . . well. . ._ _**asking** _ _._

~I see that now. But I had forgotten, you see.~

_Forgotten basic Human decency? Forgotten that even had you succeeded, you would be bringing a child into the same prison you inhabit? Forgotten that Humans without free will have been robbed of nearly everything that makes them Humans?_

~Yes. Such things are unnecessary in dreams.~

_Perhaps. . ._

~And after I found you. . . I. . . couldn't help myself.~

He might have believed her, except for one thing. . . _I will grant that you feel. . . something, for me - I suppose I can understand that. And it's not too long a leap from there to understand wanting me to give you a child, but then,_ _ **why**_ _did you intend to force a mating between me and one of my cadets? What would that have achieved?_

~I told you. They were going to give us this planet. We were going to heal it, make it green again. Repopulate.~

_That might have been the Crainari's justification, but it isn't the whole story._

~You are a great deal wiser than I at first thought. . .~ Her mind sighed with pain, and distant, but bitter shame ~If you had attempted to impregnate one of them, it would have been quite simple for the Crainari to make both of you think it. . . had not happened. A simple transporter beam and the Crainari's gestation tanks and. . . I could. . .~

Horrible realization dawned. _You could. . ._ _ **steal**_ _the baby?_

~Yes.~

For the first time, he leaned away from her in disgust and horror.

~You see, this is what I am now. I did not know it myself until I lived in your mind for a while. But I am become as twisted and malformed as my body. More so. My body functions. My mind no longer does. I am no longer Human.~

He didn't know what to say.

~I reiterate - to return with you would be to endanger others. I must stay.~

There was a very long pause.

_What. . . will I tell my crew? They are bound to ask about you. . . they. . . they only wanted to rescue you._

She nodded ~I know. Tell them I stay because I am addicted to the illusions. Tell them I stay because I cannot face my true form. Tell them anything but the truth.~

_I will not lie for you, Vina._

~Then tell them nothing at all.~

Old Vina silently morphed back into her young, pretty form, and she smiled up at a new image that materialized next to her. An image. . . of him.

~I will attempt to be happy for as long as I am able. Go in peace, but tell your people that it is death to come to this place. Humans learn this form of telepathy all too easily - and if any more of you learn it. . . it would lead to your destruction. They are an old race. Perhaps it is merely that their time is finished. But the Human race is young. Protect your people from us, Christopher.~

_I will._

~One last thing. If you personally ever become tired of the universe you live in. . . you are welcome to return. Only you.~

He was flabbergasted. He did not bother to hide it.

_I. . . may consider it. . ._

~You do not intend to do so, I can see. But do not lightly dismiss my offer. They may be dying, but it is rare for anyone to. . . make them wish to survive. Just your being here brought back a little of their. . . life. For that, and for your. . . nobility. . . I cannot be sorry that I brought you here.~

_I guess you consider that a compliment, eh?_

~It was meant as such.~

_I suppose I ought to thank you. . . for letting me go, at least._

~No thanks are necessary. Farewell, Christopher Pike. Perhaps we shall meet again.~

_Somehow I doubt that, but you never know._

~Quite.~

Vina turned to go, leaving him free to leave whenever he wished.

With a great sigh, of disappointment or relief he was not sure, Pike flipped open his comm.

" _Carrington_? One to beam up."

* * *

There was a standing ovation when he entered the bridge.

Pike looked around himself, and half smiled, suddenly shy at this unexpected show of affection and support.

He always tried to do right by his cadets. They were truly his family. It was. . . gratifying to see and feel the sentiment returned.

"Sit down, sit down all of you," he said, trying to be gruff but failing miserably.

They gradually obeyed, sorting themselves out like the solid crew they now were.

Gratefully, he sat in the captain's chair and watched them.

_Yet another adventure survived. . ._

Boyce approached him, a question on his face. "And uh. . . Vina?"

All activity on the bridge came to a screeching halt.

Chris shook his head, then paused. Whatever he told them, it would have a drastic effect on morale.

He decided to spare Vina.

_And myself._

"No, doctor. She decided to stay. And I agreed with her reasoning."

Hill looked like he was about to argue, but he apparently decided against it. "Whatever you think best, I'm sure. . ." He nodded instead of saluting, then strolled into the turbolift, back to his sickbay.

The bridge was still frozen, unsure of what to do next.

He smiled, and took pity on them.

"C'mon folks! Lay in a course for Talos Prime. We have a survey mission to complete."

Slowly, they complied.

Seemingly under his breath, but in fact deliberately pitched to carry across the whole room, he murmured, "Really. . . what are we running here, a cadet ship?"

Suddenly, everyone on the bridge sat up straighter, worked faster, and their expressions became brighter, as in unison they became aware of his meaning.

They all still had a couple of months until graduation, but in their captain's mind, they had just passed their final test.

Chris smiled softly.

For the next few weeks, at least, he wouldn't have to worry about morale.

* * *

The adventure upon Talos 4 had not ended their mission, but it _had_ drastically curtailed it. Pike shortened the surveying schedule to three weeks, given that, as he said, "We know for sure that no one will be allowed to settle in this cluster for at least 30 years."

No one was quite certain _how_ he knew this, but they trusted Pike's captaining by now, and there were no complaints.

On the contrary, the crew was quite pleased at the prospect of home a full month before they had expected it, and they threw all the effort they could into the routine surveying. A mission that had promised to be boring was now merely inconsequential, full of eagerness for other things.

A week into this last leg of his Seniors Mission, Spock was sitting in front of his firepot when his door chime sounded.

He sensed Ty outside. As he was supposed to have met her in her quarters fifteen minutes ago, he was not surprised.

"Come in," he said, quietly.

She strode into his room, and seeing him at his _asenoi_ , made herself comfortable on the carpet next to him.

"Where were you, Spock?" she asked, knowing the answer, but clearly wanting him to say it anyway.

"Here. I needed to be alone."

"Alone. . ." she folded her hands, and looked down at them, "Do you mean just for right now, or. . . for good?"

He took a deep breath. "I think. . . it is the latter."

She gave a short sigh. "Well, I've known this was coming for quite some time."

He nodded. "As have I. I hope. . ."

It surprised him, the extent to which he hoped.

_I hope I have not harmed you. I hope I have pleased you. I hope you will never hate me. I hope we may remain friends. I hope you find someone who will appreicate you more than I ever did. I hope you have peace, and joy, and love, and the finest emotional bond that a Betazoid can experience._

He shrugged. ". . . I hope."

She smiled. "I know."

"You do?" He raised an eyebrow, "How much do you know, I wonder. . ."

She laughed a little. "One day, Spock, you're going to have a relationship for _you_ , not just the other person. When that day comes, you'll know what I know."

He was silent, considering her words.

She gently touched his shoulder. "As a fellow telepath, can I. . . offer you some advice?"

"Of course."

"When you do. . . fall in love. . . don't. . . don't do what we did. Don't get intimate right away."

His second eyebrow joined the first. "I was under the impression that Betazoid society encouraged such interactions between couples."

"Yes. But you aren't Betazoid."

"And that is why you advise against this?"

"No, not only that."

He merely looked at her, waiting.

"I walked into this with my eyes open, Spock. I knew it wasn't permanent, that I couldn't keep you. But most other girls - whatever their species - aren't going to approach you like that. You're. . . brilliant, and warm and beautiful and wonderful and. . . addictive." She sighed. "Every second we were together, I knew that I'd eventually have to give you up. . . but now that I've had a taste, I don't _want_ to. Even this hurts, and I was _expecting_ it."

She looked up at him, a distant pain in her eyes, which he was ashamed to have caused, but it was nevertheless a completely different pain than he had ever seen on a woman's face before. She did not hate him. There would be no bitterness or repining. For that, at least, he was thankful.

"You have my sympathies, Ty."

She smiled sadly. "Thank you. But. . . take it from me. If you get too close too quickly, you could hurt someone a whole lot. Destroy them, even."

"In other words - 'You give a girl a kiss - "

" - and she wants the universe.' Yes, unfortunately, old tropes hold true sometimes, even in this modern age." She paused, obviously wanting to ask for something, but not sure if she could. Finally she said, haltingly, "Please, can you. . . promise me you won't. . . won't ever hurt someone like that?"

His mouth quirked. "I believe that would be what some Humans call a "pie crust promise". Easily made, easily broken. But shall do my utmost never to harm any of my fellow beings."

She smiled. "As you always do, I know. . . but I had to ask."

"Of course."

She looked at him then, curious, and somehow shy, as if the months they had spent in an intimate relationship had never happened, "I wonder what she's like."

"Who?"

"The girl who will make you happy."

His voice and eyes softened. Oh, he did _like_ Ty, very, very much. "I believe you did "make me happy", after a fashion, Tyanna."

"No. I only showed you that your happiness was possible." She shook her head, then gave him a farewell kiss on the tip of his chin. "One day, Spock. One day you'll get everything you ever wanted. I'm certain of it."

"You cannot possibly be sure. . ."

"Oh, but I am. Trust me, my friend. There are people who are born for success, and for happiness. For love too. You're one of them."

"I. . . thank you."

"You're welcome. And don't go comparing us when you find her either."

He blinked. "I would not-"

"I've been inside your head, S'chn T'gai Spokh, so don't you go denying that you do that. I've seen it."

"Only occ-"

"Besides, when you've found the right one, you don't have to analyze what makes them different - because you can't. You'll just know. That's why the term "beyond compare" was invented."

He did not speak for a moment, to make sure she had finished.

"Very well."

She sighed lightly. "But, I _am_ going to miss that real water shower of yours, Lieutenant Commander." She stood up, waved her fingers and clicked her tongue, and then she was gone. Out of his quarters, and out of his life.

To his surprise, he was able to turn immediately back to his _asenoi_.

_That. . ._

He was not entirely certain of the idiom, but he believed that scene had "beat the shit" out of how he had imagined it would go.

He had long understood why Humans thought breakups were devastating, depressing, and so highly emotional that they were often considered song-worthy.

Now, at long last, he understood how some Humans could "hook up", with relatively little drama, and no appreciable damage. They built flexibility into the foundation of the relationship, never linked their deepest feelings to it, and allowed themselves to be satisfied with more superficial fruits.

Trying out "hooking up" had certainly been an experience - one he was quite sure he had no interest in repeating.

 _That is that._ Kaiidth. _Now, I must begin in earnest to search for a choice-mate._

Quickly, he scanned his _katra_ , and found few regrets - indeed, only one - that he would never again be able to interact with Tyanna's brilliantly beautiful seashell of a mind.

Ty had indeed been. . . _fun_. . .

And no memories of her would cause him pain. A fitting payment for all of _his_ efforts to cause no pain.

_Chris will appreciate that._

He allowed himself a small smile, then sank back into deep meditation.

* * *

There was far less hassle than usual in obtaining a slip for the _Carrington_ at the Terran Orbital Station Docks. Returning cadet ships were often given preferential treatment, and this one - returning early, but not _too_ early - promised the station residents quite a bit of interesting gossip.

Of course, their enthusiasm abated somewhat after it became clear the _Carrington_ 's story included the death or injury of over a dozen cadets, but the solemn feelings didn't last long when the story of their heroism circulated too.

Spock shook his head as he gathered his things from his quarters. Human's reliance on hearsay for amusement never ceased to mystify him.

It was a short shuttle ride to the dockside beaming station. On his way to the shuttle bay, he contemplated a farewell conversation with Pike, but then thought better of it. This was hardly farewell, and besides, Chris had been acting quite differently towards him ever since Talos 4. It did not manifest in any of their professional interactions, but every now and then, in the mess hall, or in the corridors, Spock had noticed Christopher looking at him in a way he never had before.

It mystified him until he had glimpsed Chris sending a similar look in the direction of St. John.

Then, he understood.

Pike's sudden but brief relationship with a telepathic woman had been exploitative, tragic, and had ended badly.

Spock's sudden and brief relationship with a telepathic woman had been overwhelmingly positive, heroic, and had ended as well as it possibly could have.

It appeared the old Vulcan saying might in fact be true - _Dorl-tefu_ _vutor kosu na'se-vah t'ko el'ru mak._

In Vuhlkansu it was an obvious, ridiculously crude _double-entendre_. As close to a "joke" as Vulcans ever pronounced in public. But for Humans, the idiom was far more serious, and from the look on Christopher's face, quite deeply emotional.

For the first time, Pike was looking at him, not with care or friendship, but with _envy_.

It was unfortunate that Pike should be experiencing such emotions at the moment, given that Spock would much rather have spoken to him about their recently discovered _t'hy'la_ bond. Christopher was now more of a father to him than ever, but their current situation prevented him from broaching the subject.

However, he trusted that Chris would "get over it", in time.

He handed his ticket to the transporter chief, then waited patiently in line behind seventeen other cadets and station residents.

Besides a casual nod from the chief, no one acknowledged his presence. It was a drastic shift from what his experience had been for months now.

Refreshing, but very strange.

He knew it all ought to have felt like an ending, but it did not.

When his turn came, he stepped atop the pad, and keyed for transport down to Academy Headquarters, where he would volunteer his services as an instructor.

_Now, for the beginning._

* * *

=/\=

* * *

 _Suus mahna_ \- Traditional Vulcan martial art form. Focuses almost entirely on defensive techniques.

 _Koon-ul_ \- Betrothal, or "The Joining"

 _ **Ta'anna'shau**_ \- "Welcome" or housewarming gift. Also often given to newlyweds, children after _kahs'wan_ , and mothers right after giving birth.

 _ **Dorl-tefu**_ _ **vutor kosu na'se-vah t'ko el'ru mak**_ \- "Give honor to the woman, for in her hand is all your joy." (modern Vulcan idiom)

 _Vuhlkansu_ \- (language) Common Vulcan

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I know, I know. It's been a SUPER long wait for this update. I'm sorry. I hope the mega-ultra-long chapter makes up for it somewhat. (seriously, this one chapter accounts for almost a full third of the word count so far)
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who is sticking with me on this story, and I would like to thank Sherlockian Girl (ladyhistory) specifically, for being the best of friends IRL, and putting up with months upon months of my wittering about this chapter.
> 
> On a different note, I feel it's time you all knew something. . . I have a chronic illness. It isn't anywhere close to life-threatening, but it does make me work slowly, move slowly, and more often than not, think slowly. It seriously impacts my fanfiction writing capability a lot of the time, not to mention my functional Real Life living. I've just been through possibly the worst two years of my life, health-wise. Being sick all the time STINKS, you guys. I'm on the mend for now, but I'm still not sleeping well. . . when I sleep at all.
> 
> Besides all of that, most of my chapters are refusing to be anything but crazy huge, and require so much rewriting, plotting, research, character development, and editing. . . well, is it any wonder that I can't bang out an update every week? (or month? or two months? or six months?) *sigh* Maybe my NEXT epic will be easier. . .
> 
> Anyway, I want to reassure you all - I have planned this story out completely, and have written large chunks of it too. At the moment I intend there to be twenty eight chapters (thirty total if you count the prologue and epilogue), as well as SEVERAL more side stories. That means, technically speaking, we are over halfway through! WOOT! When I do finally finish this monster, I have a full-length Sarek/Amanda prelude planned, and a huge sequel is in the works too. (I plan to re-tell every story from TOS Season 2 in the reboot universe. Yes. I AM that crazy. ;)
> 
> tl;dr? - I am not quitting this story. Not by a long shot.
> 
> There are days when writing is literally what keeps me going, even if I only manage to get three or four words on paper. And even though I've had way more days like that than I'd care to admit, I'm not about to give up. Just please bear with me whenever things slow down. Which I know you do - nearly all of your reviews and PM's have been wonderfully supportive, and I thank you so very, very much for that. Y'all are my people, and I love every one of you. (^_^)
> 
> Here's to the next half!


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